


Tales from the White Palace

by Payasita



Series: Royal Nonsense [2]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Drabbles, Dueling, Growing Up, Multi, Rarepair, Sibling Bonding, Tournaments, Void Consequences, Warnings In Chapter Notes, character list will be updated as works are added, court life, more parties, poison??, the dreamers are friends, trying to stab each other as flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 114,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Payasita/pseuds/Payasita
Summary: A collection of stories, set in the same universe as Will Terribly. Loosely connected, will be readable in any order. Will mainly follow stories of Hollow and Hornet as children of royalty, but there will be others. Will update until I'm finally over the idea of ridiculous court nonsense in Hallownest.
Relationships: Herrah/Grimm (Hollow Knight), The Pale King/White Lady (Hollow Knight)
Series: Royal Nonsense [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901320
Comments: 401
Kudos: 721





	1. To Demand Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> i was too anxious at the idea of posting more of this au for about, oh, 6 hours max before the comments on the last chapter of Will Terribly SUFFICIENTLY beat that out of me oh my god 
> 
> if yall really do love reading this kind of thing as much as i love doing it, thank you for enabling me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lessons about the duel codes of Hallownest.

It was a springtime picnic, thrown by one of Hornet's more social governesses. Many of her classmates were in attendance, indulging in the break from study with what many of them thought of as a modest, casual party. It was thrown in the Queen’s gardens with her permission, though she herself had been too busy to attend. Now that the place was in bloom, it provided an acceptably idyllic scenery of climbing vines lacing floral knots around the fountain, and petals softened the ground. The outdoor aspect at least made it feel more laid-back than any ballroom affair, and Hollow quickly found some fun to be had by teaching some of the younger children in attendance how to weave flower stems into garlands and bracelets and the like. 

They were attending on request from their sister, who was somehow less comfortable with this kind of socializing than Hollow was. To be fair, Hollow had the advantage of not being expected to speak, and the rules and structure in place when attending any formal affair gave them something to focus on, and would guide them. Hornet, though, found it all stifling. Any friends she managed to make among the children she grew up tutored with often had similar opinions, and so most of them had elected to excuse themselves from attending, politely or not. Hornet could have as well, but the White Lady had urged her to attend. Her argument had been that if Hornet was present now, she'd be able to call back on previous goodwill to excuse herself from attending any future event that she _really_ didn't want to be a part of, so as to not subject herself to any drama. Hollow had found this method of convincing their sister to be _polite_ rather amusing. She was definitely growing into something of a strategist. 

They kept half an eye on her, where she sat among her previous and current classmates, probably just trying not to look bored. Hollow considered pulling her over to play with the children. She wasn't _fantastic_ with younglings, but the two of them could agree that kids were usually easier and more fun to converse with than their highborn parents. The ones that weren't already spoilt to the point of constant screaming, anyway.

One such child was now pulling on another's flower craft. It was only a bunch of stems woven together into a tangle, but they'd worked hard, and it was now being destroyed. Hollow reacted quickly by gently pushing the bully kid's hand away from the other, and shaking their head. Not understanding how to make their own was no reason to be rude. 

" _Excuse me!_ What do you think you're _doing?!"_ A sudden voice snapped them to attention. A middle aged noble that Hollow hadn't seen before. There were many of those. They were doing their best to keep up with internal affairs, but there were just so many _names._ They thought this one was some sort of earl. Either way, he looked upset. 

"Keep your hands off my child!" The maybe-earl surprised everyone by snapping, and pulling his young away from Hollow. The surrounding area went rather quiet. Hornet was at the scene so quickly Hollow hadn't even noticed her move. 

"You realize," she began, already not sounding friendly, "you're shouting at the child of your King and Queen themselves?" 

"Hah! If they mean to frighten me with their heritage, that won't work. They're no King in their own right, and they certainly have no right to shove their horns into a parent's business. Shame on you!" There were murmurs now, but Hollow could only notice how the child they'd apparently slighted actually looked embarrassed. 

"Cease your squawking! They _can't_ have meddled in your business. That would require you to have actually been _watching_ your brat _,"_ Hornet challenged. Hollow got the creeping feeling that _maybe_ her approach wasn't making things better. They put a hand on her shoulder, a silent bid to back down. 

"Be cautious in your proceedings, you continue to allow a _guest_ to be insulted on royal ground, and I will _not_ continue to take that." The pissed-off aristocrat was very notably looking at _Hollow_ , not Hornet.

"If you find your treatment so distasteful, it'd be no trouble to have the guards escort you to the gates," Hornet threatened, her own voice level. Hollow attempted to step between them, hands up in what they very much hoped translated into _"Now look here hold on--"_

"That's it! I _challenge_ you, princeling. Meet me at the dueling ground at dawn, if you have a _shred_ of the honor your family name should uphold."

The murmurs of the surrounding guests had long since quieted to rapt silence. Now they erupted anew, gasps and all. Hollow was still scrambling to understand what just happened when the maybe-earl dragged his child by the arm and stormed off. Hornet looked about half a second away from turning the garden into a dueling ground herself. Hollow looked around, searching for the slightest bit of context as to what was supposed to happen next. Rules often comforted them, but they sorely wished that they weren't always stuck learning new ones on the fly like this.

* * *

The party hadn't gone on much longer after that little drama. Hornet already had little taste for casual entertainment before it all went down, and there was no doubt everyone in attendance was in a great hurry to get back to their respective lands and spread the new gossip like a virus. Hornet paced a palace hallway, while Hollow sat and waited at a windowsill, distracting themself by counting the floor tiles along the walls, and trying to calculate the area they encompassed in their head from that. 

"Alright," she finally said, prompting them to look over, "So. I don't know anything about the code of dueling in Hallownest. The Hive has nothing like it, as far as I'm aware. When there's any feuding in Deepnest, the procedure is to fight until you're forced to flee. Only _fools_ die for honor. Do you know where this 'dueling ground' is?" She looked over. Hollow shook their head.

"Alright," She said again. "Okay. Are we in agreement that it's in our best interest not to let this escalate?"

Hollow tilted their head. Now, they didn't have the best imagination, so maybe the concept of how this could possibly escalate any _further_ was simply beyond them.

"Don't give me that look! Your Hallownest folk are constantly running themselves in circles trying to avoid anything inconvenient. I'm sure there's a way out of this. We only need to find it."

They sighed, earning a scoff from their sister. 

"I _know_ we don't exactly have the time to go poring over tomes and textbooks on duel etiquette. There aren't any laws on the subject that I know of--we may have to resort to asking for outside help. Preferably from someone who can be discreet."

No parents, then. They supposed that made sense, they couldn't imagine any of their three being particularly _pleased_ about this. Besides, Hollow was technically an adult in their own right. Really, they should be dealing with this on their own. They would have tried, had they been under any delusion that Hornet wasn't going to make this her problem as well.

... Well, it _was_ at least partially her fault. They wondered if the frothing noble would have bothered to initiate a challenge if Hollow had just silently stared him down long enough. That generally got people they disliked to just walk away, given enough time. They supposed they ought to be upset with her. Especially given Hollow’s long history of having their autonomy undermined, which Hornet had already been made privy to. Wasn't what had happened more of the same, even if she'd only been trying to defend them?

"I'll ask around, I suppose. It isn't like this will be kept secret anyway, there were so _many_ onlookers. The best we can hope for is that the news won't reach our parents until _after_ we've figured this nonsense out." She thought out loud, as she often did around Hollow. Hollow's attention was squarely back on their tiles. They thought about looking for information on this alleged 'dueling ground' in the news. Or something. They really had no idea where to start, here. 

There was a bit of silence, and then Hornet spoke again. More like she _commanded_ their attention with a certain tone of voice that they often felt prophesied the sort of leader she'd one day be.

"Hollow. Make no mistake, I _will_ get you out of this. I mean that. I have no intention of being the reason you're ever forced to pick up a nail again. Alright?" She spoke, clear and confident. 

Hollow looked back at her again, surprised. So much had changed about their little sister, since the days when she'd been a tiny spiderling hopped-up on god's blood. But one thing that evidently hadn’t changed was the way she dealt with _guilt_. Always so action oriented. Words alone meant little to her. That was easier to deal with back then, but nowadays, they find more and more that they can't simply hug the bad feelings out of her. That was the unfair part. 

Okay. They supposed they did have _one_ idea. 

Sign language was difficult for the both of them. Learning _any_ new language so late in life was a great challenge, but the two of them were more or less proficient in fingerspelling, by this point. Hollow signed carefully, but very slowly. Hornet's methods were more error-laden, as she often tried to get her messages out as quickly as possible. She considered it more important for her to be able to read sign than write it, anyway. To that effect, Hollow took their time in spelling out their idea to her. 

She squinted. "...’O’… ‘R’? Ah--Ogrim?" 

A nod.

"... That’s worth a shot."

Hollow made a mental note to bring a tin of loose leaf tea to the barracks, as a gift. Dryya loved the stuff. 

* * *

Ogrim was found outside the barracks at the training grounds, overseeing drills. He greeted princeling and princess as enthusiastically as expected, to the varying degrees of shock and curiosity from the trainees. He _did_ bow deeply, but whatever his intention with it, it really couldn't come across as anything but playful. 

"Your highnesses! What a nice surprise! Come for a sparring match, perhaps? You're getting so tall now, princess, It’d be a grand time getting to test the progress you've made with your needle!" He all but gushed, standing proud and jolly.

"Not today." Hornet cleared her throat, like she'd somehow rehearsed this interaction, "Sir Ogrim, you know me to be technically foreign to this land, and my sibling's education on local affairs had long been delayed. I was wondering if you could enlighten us on a custom we find ourselves curious about?"

"Oh? Well, of course! But what do you come to me for that you couldn't ask your tutors, or your father?" He looked between them.

"It's about dueling. We thought it would be more educational to ask someone who'd have a wealth of personal experience," she explained. 

(Hollow sometimes found themself curious about the practice of lying. Some people, like their mother and Hornet, made it look so easy. And then others, like their father and Ogrim, seemed to find it immensely difficult. Mostly, they were just relieved they didn't really have to bother with it, themself. It seemed like such a hassle. Especially when most people were already content to read whatever they wanted to see off Hollow's blank mask.)

"Dueling!" He cried, "Why, forgive me, Princess of Deepnest, but you're still a bit young to be curious about _that_ . And I can't think of anyone who'd challenge a chi--er, a _royal_ directly," he deflected. 

"Humor me. Let's imagine, hypothetically, someone made the stupid decision to demand satisfaction from, say, _Hollow_ , their status notwithstanding. What'd be the procedure, there?" She gestured to them. 

"Hmm... I suppose it hardly hurts to know of our traditions. Dueling goes back a long way in our kingdom. Indeed, there's nothing more glorious than the clash of combat between two bugs fighting for honor!" He raised a claw, looking out at the trainees. Metal hit metal and wood in a rhythm-less backdrop of blows as they practiced their forms against dummies, or fenced one another. 

"There is something of a code of honor, though it evolves with the generations. The challenger declares a time and place, and the challenged--that'd by you, your highness, in this case--will meet them there. You, as the challenged, get to choose from a selection what weapon will be used by both parties. The choice is usually between nails and staves, though I suppose it depends on who you've theoretically insulted. 

Both parties must bring a witness. A diplomat, in a sense, to facilitate proceedings in a civilized manner. Before weapons are distributed, the secondaries have a chance to meet and negotiate peace. If they arrive at some agreement that the argument isn't worth dueling for, the affair ends right there, with both sides sharing agreed-upon concessions.

But if they cannot, and you must fight, the one who has their blood shed first is given the chance to yield and apologize. And even if they do not, the aggressor may declare that they choose to spare their life. People rarely die when challenged nowadays. It's about defending your honor, and the willingness to fight for it is often enough to satisfy both parties. The goal is to leave on amicable terms, unless either of you feel a moral obligation to cut the other down."

"... And this is _legal_ here?" Hornet demanded.

"... Well, er, we... _Murder_ is certainly illegal, of course!" Ogrim sort of laughed.

"And there's no way to get out of a challenge before meeting with weapons?"

"Hm? Oh! Well, I suppose if you didn't _want_ to go through with the duel itself… Yes, of course you can apologize to your challenger. That's often enough. It depends on the insult, of course! An apology might be enough for a challenge issued over some verbal mockery, but it probably wouldn't be enough for, say, a previous physical attack, or a harmful betrayal. That makes sense, yes?"

"... Noted," Hornet nodded. Hollow sometimes got the sense that Hornet found many of their home's customs to be incredibly stupid. This was probably one of those times.

"Where's the dueling ground?"

"Oh-- We meet at the shore of the Blue Lake, nowadays. It'd previously been up east of the Pleasure House, until someone went and built that colosseum--"

Hornet thanked him, and turned to go on her way. Hollow gifted Ogrim the tea, and spared a bow for their slightly bemused old mentor. They declined an invitation to have lunch at the mess hall, electing instead to follow their sister. The two had something of a reputation for going off on their own whims, so the abrupt exit wasn't too odd. It was only that the young royals themselves were a bit odd.

-

"Ugh. Everything in this entire _caste_ is just powered by ego, isn't it?" 

Once back to the palace by stagway, Hornet had tailed Hollow to their room, where they now sat and worked with some shears and parchment at their colorful window-box garden, carefully browsing the healthiest looking blooms. The flowers were nice, this spring. 

On her part, Hornet sat with a quill and paper at their desk, mumbling to herself and occasionally scribbling and crossing things out. The background ambiance of pen scratching and general stress reminded them so much of their father, though they'd keep _that_ thought to themself. Hornet had quite a nasty bite when she was insulted. Literally.

"How does one negotiate a peace talk over something so trivial? It shouldn't even be a problem. The snot-nosed little jerk and his misbehaving child couldn't even take the _idea_ of criticism. How do you explain to someone like that a concept so basic as: 'It is not a good idea to stab your King’s eldest child over a bad time at a party?'" She crumpled up another sheet, and discarded it. Hornet leaned back in her chair, groaning in frustration.

"Maybe impaling the fool won't be so bad, after all. Try to aim for the mouth."

Hollow came up behind her to flick one of her horns. She waved them off, before noticing what they carried. A parchment wrapped bouquet with a silk ribbon, freshly clipped.

"... Pretty. What are they?" They held it closer for her to examine, a proud set to their shoulders. Hand signs were currently hit-or-miss between them, but they'd long shared fluency in this particular language. 

"...Those-- You're actually going to _apologize?!"_ She spat. Hollow gave no indication that they had any qualms with this, patiently adjusting a few errant leaves to keep them from squishing. People appreciated attention to detail. 

"But you didn't even _do_ anything! It was that egotistical baron who'd found the smallest excuse to lose his mind--and _I_ had been the one to stoke his ire further! You shouldn't _have_ to apologize. Let _me_ handle the peace talk as your second, and you won't even have to _acknowledge_ the bastard."

A hand sign, quick and concise for its simplicity. 

"... 'No', what?"

They gestured to Hornet. Signed "no," again.

She looked taken aback, then glared dangerously. Good, so she got the message. "... You _need_ a second. Those are the rules."

They shook their head, and held up the bouquet again. They wouldn't need a single thing if their apology was sufficient.

"And if the flowers _aren't_ sufficient?"

They shrugged.

" _Hollow!_ "

They strode out, leaving their sister to her frustration and scribbling. They had a next step, and that was enough for now. For the sake of their sanity. 

It was quick work to dispatch a messenger with their gift to the right noble, now that they knew he was a baron. That particular messenger, by virtue of existing near the palace over the last day, had immediately known exactly who to send the flowers to after taking a moment to read them. Peace, love for your fellow higher being, and remorse. She’d then commended her princeling on their wisdom. Duels were really such awful things, she'd said. Hollow counted themself _unbelievably_ lucky that their mother would be off on business for a few more days yet. And with any more luck, their father wouldn't learn about this incident until, oh, next year. That hope wasn't actually much of a stretch. The Pale King wasn't really one for court gossip. 

Palace couriers worked fast. They'd only had to wait an hour or two before the one he sent came back looking… distressed. She stammered through an explanation of what'd happened. Apparently, the baron had taken the bouquet as mockery. The flowers had been interpreted in the most basic way one could interpret receiving a bouquet in the mail: "Sorry for your loss." The courier said he'd shouted something about Hollow's cockiness, acting as if the baron were already good as dead. 

Okay. So not every noble in the land could understand the Queen's favored message system. Good to know.

They realized belatedly that they hadn’t thought to attach a damn _letter._

* * *

Hollow sat against the wall in their room, silent and still in that way that Hornet's classmates had told her reminded them of a propped-up ball-jointed doll. She found that a bit dramatic. They aren't nearly so lifeless, and that'd be clear to _anyone_ if they ever bothered to really _look._ Besides, dolls weren't even creepy. Really, the silliest things tended to unsettle Hallownest bugs.

She rocked back on the back legs of the desk chair, trying and failing again to outline her points for the truce. She just couldn't think of any that didn't amount to "You're wrong, this is stupid, and we have to agree on this so no one gets stabbed." She figured whoever the baron chose as his second was probably going to be just as confrontational as he was, and so it’d fall on _Hornet_ to be the only reasonable person there with an audible voice. 

This would be so much easier if she could just take Hollow's place. They had no business dueling, hadn't even picked up a nail since the day they quit knight training. Hornet was fast, and could slice through any of these rich, complacent old _farts_ in a matter of _less_ than seconds. She would bet that the baron had never even held a weapon for any real purpose in his life. 

It was never Hollow's _safety_ she worried for. Rusty or not, a lifetime of training doesn't just disappear. They could probably be done with this even faster than she could, no matter how long it's been. They could snap the pompous idiot like a twig. They could kill him without exerting any effort. And that was exactly why neither of them wanted Hollow to duel.

Hollow _hated_ fighting, hated even the idea of it. So many people relished violence, as evidenced from the barracks, from the mercenaries they produced, and from the apparently commonplace nature of dueling in Hallownest tradition. Hornet couldn't even count herself any different, being from Deepnest. Her mother was a warrior, and she would be, too. Strength and agility were key to survival, and for earning respect. She was a hunter, and she loved that for herself. 

It had been astounding to her, when she first came to truly understand that she had found a real, honest-to-gods _pacifist_ in her elder sibling. And their wishes _would_ be respected. She would do everything in her power to make sure of that. Through a senseless series of injustices, Hollow had been put in the position where they had ended up having to _earn_ the right to wish at _all_. She'd cut down anyone who thought themselves entitled to their actions, be they some party guest with no self awareness, or even the Pale Wyrm himself. 

She stared down at her scribbled out page. Nearly hissed at it. 

"There has to be another way," she said at length. Hollow didn't react. Hornet took a breath.

"Perhaps… it _would_ be in our best interest to ask one of our parents for advice." They looked at her quickly enough that she could glean the idea spooked them. She rolled her eyes, an attempt to keep them calm with normalcy. 

"Please, I'm not going to turn around and tattle. It's only a suggestion. Out of our shared pool, which one of them, do you think, would be the most likely to help us do this ourselves, for being the least likely to want to get in the middle of anything?" She asked.

They looked at each other. It wasn’t even really a question.

* * *

"...A _duel,"_ the Pale King said flatly.

He had been repairing a wingsmould in his workshop when the children burst in. The construct now sat disassembled on the workbench, while he used the multitool as something to just fiddle with in his hands while he listened to his daughter explain the situation. His other child stood stock still slightly behind her. It was more than a little reminiscent of how Hornet used to hide behind their cloak when she was in trouble for something. Amazing how Hollow could achieve the same effect, being so much taller than either of them. 

" _How_ is this a situation in which they can find themselves? Letting noblemen kill each other over paltry slights sounds like something that ought to have been outlawed _centuries_ ago!" Ah, _here_ was the part of their predicament where Hornet somehow managed to pin some blame on him. She always found that easy, having a god-king as her father. He only sighed, flipping a corkscrew wrench open and shut.

"I have _tried._ The practice only continued evolving. It seemed as though every time I'd look back, my higher beings would find an entirely new method of injuring each other for the sake of _honor._ The best I could do was make actual _murder_ illegal. The duel codes are theirs, not mine."

"But they're _your_ child! Isn't this-- endangerment of a royal, or something?" 

"... Have you come to ask me to have this baron arrested for treason?" 

Hornet seemed to consider it. Hollow held her shoulder and made their dissent wildly clear. Just as well. There wasn’t much he could do with any legal precedent while nothing had actually happened yet.

"...No, no, that's not why we're here. We're searching for some technicality to get out of this. There is _always_ some technicality with your people, no matter what they speak of honor," Hornet accused.

He thought back on what he knew, from the more famous duels that had once set the court on its ear. "Have there been any attempts at peace?"

"Hollow apologized. The baron did not accept."

"... An apology was not sufficient for… keeping his child off another one at a picnic?"

"He actually took it as another slight."

"What was his name, again?"

His children looked at each other, uncomfortably. Great.

"... I suppose it doesn't actually matter. Someone like that may care very little for their social bearings. Either that, or I suspect he's already on some downslide, having the gall to pull a stunt like this." The king wondered idly what this person's ancestors had once done to earn the ennobling he and many like him now squandered. Perhaps they'd made some agricultural discovery. Maybe they’d invented the railroads now used for the trams. It hardly mattered, now.

"There's also the little matter of Hollow never _actually_ having said anything to this fool. _I_ spoke to him, so _I_ am responsible for the insult, not them."

"Ah. Now this makes sense."

" _Father!"_

Her outrage got Hollow to look steadfastly away, shoulders shaking slightly. Silent laughter. 

(He'd later admit to his Root how that sort of sight still did things to his heart, even so many years later. She'd remind him how it has actually been no time at all, in the scope of their lives.)

"I only meant," the king held his two free hands up, placating, "That if he wanted to issue a public challenge, Hollow was the safer bet. They were born and raised here, and ought to know Hallownest customs. Choosing them would better ensure his own safety. You know how Deepnest still has a reputation among our people, despite your stepmother’s ongoing efforts to campaign otherwise."

"He thought I'd kill him, and knew Hollow wouldn't." She all but hissed the revelation through her fangs. "And you believe the differences in our homelands to be the _true_ reason for that?"

It was a challenge more than a question. One most would shy away from. He might have, once, but there was little to be gained in denying his children's reputations. Whether that'd be shy, gentle Hollow, or fierce, intrepid Hornet. 

"... No," he admitted, and put the tool down. "Not fully. Either way, there is one more piece of advice I can offer you."

"And that is?" Hornet asked, and the king looked only at Hollow.

"Delope. Refuse to raise your blade with the intent to harm your opponent. Few who issue challenges are actually at peace with the idea of being injured. Let him strike your nail, and then let it fall. A disarmament is just as much an opportunity to concede as blood drawn." 

They'd both fallen back into old habits, at his speech. The king standing tall with his hands clasped behind him, the would-be Hollow Knight at rigid attention. It was enough to get the king to force himself to relax his stance. 

"... This is not a command. It is only what counsel I have for you, barring the failure of your secondaries to establish peace.” He tried to gentle his voice, but the same tone only came out minutely quieter. In truth, the king would bet that Hollow would have thrown the fight even without knowing the practice had a name. 

"And if he refuses the opportunity to spare them? They could actually be harmed, then." Hornet looked nearly battle ready at the very idea _._

"There is little out there with any ability to cause your sibling real harm. You both have the advantage of your focus training and abundant soul reserves, things ordinary bugs do not. Either way, I understand it's customary these days to have a medic onsite."

"A sworn healer who'd agree to aid in two bugs harming each other?" 

"At _least_ two. There have been cases where the secondaries argue so harshly, they too become honor-bound to duel in tandem with the initial foes."

Hornet gaped. Hollow was looking at her. 

"... I believe the healer turns their back on the action. For plausible deniability." 

“You have _got_ to be--” The king cleared his throat before she could finish, foreseeing the swear word.

"Where is this taking place?" He asked.

"Above the city, at the Blue Lake."

He hummed. Neutral ground, no guards to see. Although none of that would protect the baron from the consequences once he returned home, should Hollow come to any harm. From society or from _him_. 

"And what if we just don't show up?" Hornet suggested. 

"I imagine the both of you will be hearing about it for the next several years. This sort of thing can mark a person as unreliable, or a coward, at best." He had the sense to sound apologetic. 

"You're telling me that after _everything_ we are, and what we put up with, _this_ could make us pariahs. What sort of _backwards--_ " Hollow stopped Hornet from continuing with a hand on her shoulder. They looked between the two, and nodded once, resolute. Not for the first time, the Pale King wished he could sense what they were thinking, or anything at all from them. He hoped they were as unafraid as they came across. 

"...Of course. Do what you believe is right, and you'll do the kingdom proud. Be clever." He nods back.

"Hollow--" Hornet only received a pat on the shoulder before they exited. She made to follow them, but hesitated at the door. 

"...Go on, then, ask." The king spoke first.

"If you _know_ I have a question, why not just give me a response?" She shot back.

"I _think_ you have a question. No one can truthfully claim to know any other person in their entirety."

She still looked annoyed, but relented, voice quiet. "Will they come out of this alright?"

He paused. Flickered quickly through a thousand possible futures. Could retain relatively little information at once. 

"Your sibling will survive the day. No possibility exists in which they do not," he assured.

"That is _not_ what I asked." Foresight or no, she always managed to surprise him. His wings twitched beneath his robes, imperceptible.

"...Ah. That is... not something it is within my power to know," he admitted. 

Hornet scoffed, and trailed off after her sibling, leaving him to his work.

* * *

After a few seconds, the king startled with a realization like he'd been slapped. Then, in a manner profoundly unbefitting of royalty, he kicked right off his chair and sprinted to the door to call after her.

" _Hornet!"_

It was unexpected enough that she jumped a good foot off the ground, and then whipped back around to stare at him from across the hall.

"What?!"

He took a breath. 

"... Your stepmother absolutely can _not_ find out about this," he said, gravely serious. 

Hornet nodded, equally solemn. The two never agreed on anything, but avoiding the ire of the king's lovely wife was a goal they both often shared.

* * *

Hollow knew there'd be no way that Hornet wouldn't try to show up to the Blue Lake. But if they had any choice in the matter, they would _not_ risk her. They thought they'd been clever by climbing out of a palace skylight, and hiding on the roof to draft their message. 

A needle tip suddenly embedded into the wall a few scant inches away from their face made them question their decision to try and outmaneuver her with anything involving agility. She flew herself up and alighted near them, re-sheathing her weapon in one quick motion. The little show-off.

(They could at least be somewhat thankful in general that she'd gotten so good at that. There had been a lot of crashing into walls and retainers in the earlier days.)

"You have to be up early. Why aren't you resting?" Her tone definitely suggested suspicion. They kept still, figuring trying to cover their writing would just look more incriminating. She noticed it anyway.

"... Dryya, then? Even if your missive can reach her in time, she's no peacemaker. Are you going on the assumption that having a Great Knight as your second will scare him into dropping the duel?"

Perceptive as always. They didn't move, neither wanting to affirm nor show the bit of guilt they felt. 

"It'd be a good plan, but she's just as zealous about the 'glories of combat' as Ogrim. And do not forget that the Five are as sworn to _your_ protection as they are to your parents. She'd be oath-bound to defend you, should you come to any harm. None of them would hesitate to kill someone in your name," she spoke matter-of-factly.

Hollow crumpled the letter, letting it litter the roof. Hornet sighed harshly.

"This is ridiculous. Let _me_ do this in your stead. I don't intend to kill or die for any recursive definition of 'honor' your people hold. But I also won't hesitate to remind a _fool_ of his place." She stood calm and unharried, though her voice left no room to doubt her anger. Hollow shook their head, once. They knew she'd respect their decision, even if she did not agree with it. Not because they were her elder, and _certainly_ not out of any deference for some sort of superior. Just because it would be theirs.

Though that wouldn't stop her from making her own decisions known. "Then I will be there, at dawn, as your second. You have my word that I will not let it escalate into… a double duel, I guess."

They only huffed. That was better than nothing, at least. They doubted whoever she spoke with would want to challenge the princess of spiders by their own volition. 

"I still don't see why you find it necessary to do this yourself. It had not been your fault. Everyone at that picnic could attest to that, even the _children._ You're only caught up in it because the baron had been too much of a coward to challenge _me. I_ am the cause of the ridiculous situation that you now have to fight over, all because I was _just_ foreign enough to not understand the repercussions of _meddling._ Even the _Wyrm_ could see that."

Her stance did not change, and her voice did not falter. Nothing about her there gave any indication that she thought she spoke anything but pure fact. She really did blame herself. And for a reason like who she was, and what she thought she was not.

What sorts of other burdens did she bear, being daughter to two lands, but believing she does not fit properly in one of them?

Hollow wasted no time pulling her in for a hug at the thought. They were so much bigger than her that it was actually easier the way they sat and she stood like this. Hornet returned it somewhat, after a bit of a startle. (They wondered what etiquette lesson now made this sort of thing so unexpected. They found they didn't care for it.)

"... Alright, alright. Your forgiveness is noted," she sort of grumbled.

Oh, that wouldn't do. Hornet was usually so good at reading their intentions, but Hollow had long since learned that even the most practical of creatures was not immune to reading their own biases by default, when one's expressions were so often open to interpretation. They shook their head.

" 'No,' what? You don't--" 

At once they yanked her in with ease, nuzzling her like she was a spiderling again. She arguably still _was,_ but it's been a long time since she started taking that word as a personal insult. 

" _What_ are you-- _Hollow!_ " She shoved at their mask with one hand, the other already on her needle as if she'd actually use it. They'd dare her if they could. "Hollow this is _not--"_ Not proper? Not becoming? Oh, finishing that thought might make her sound so _terribly_ like their father, wouldn't it? "Hollow so help me by every god in every pantheon I _WILL_ end you myself before the baron gets a chance to raise his nail against you." They tucked her under their chin, as she cried indignation.

They weren't sure if the message would be clear. They doubted it quite a bit, actually. With or without a voice, it seemed like such a difficult task to clearly convey to someone that they would always be family, and that they belonged.

But at least this was funny. 

She bonked them on the side of the head with the flat side of her needle, the little jerk. They did release her after that. She hopped back and dusted herself off like they'd somehow gotten dirt on her. 

Hollow picked up their quill again, and another sheet of paper from the stack they'd brought. They _never_ did just one draft of any message. Their handwriting wasn't the best. They tried to make up for it with careful propriety in their writing. (Hornet was the opposite way. She could and would begin a correspondence with "Listen here", but she'd do so with lovely calligraphy.) They headed this next one with "A Concession."

For all Hornet had been another second of torment away from jabbing them, she still decided to sit close next to them. She peeked over. 

"Hm. I suppose that'll help your yield to be interpreted without issue. Only in Hallownest would ever it be in someone's best interest to _lose_ an argument."

Hollow blocked the paper with their other hand, and stared at her. She threw up her hands, and turned a bit to allow them some privacy.

"Fine. You write like you're a thousand years old, anyway."

* * *

Early dawn came, and the siblings snuck away from the palace long before anyone was supposed to wake them for the day. It was a short trip to the Blue Lake, and blessedly deserted of anyone who'd recognize them (so, anyone) this early. Despite her promise not to escalate anything, Hornet brought her needle. But one would be hard pressed to ever find her without it, so Hollow's trust stood strong. 

They'd been to the Blue Lake before, first when Hornet had wanted to know where all the rain came from. She'd been young enough to quickly get bored of the sight after enough time and a swim, but Hollow had liked it here. A strange sense of peace permeated the shore, and they'd sat a while until everyone decided it was time to leave. They had no idea what kind of magic this place must hold, to have rained so long over such a large city without ever looking disturbed. Or what sort was at play that made the water so blue. 

They didn't like that such a place was now apparently commonly used to witness bloodshed. It somehow felt disrespectful. It made them want to get this over with even more quickly. When the young royals arrived, the baron was already waiting with his second, a familiar looking woman with a briefcase that must hold the weapons. They tried to remember her name, but Hornet beat them to it. 

"... I believe that might be the lady Emilitia. Has your mother spoken to you about her?" She asked quietly, before they were in earshot. They nodded, the White Lady had indeed spoken of this one. Even for what she was, she apparently particularly exceeded in being both unconcerned with decorum and generally horrid. All sorts of rumors circulated around her. That this lesser noble might choose her as his second already spoke volumes about him. 

They were both outcasts, then, or on their way to being. That worried Hollow. These people were born with so much, and the only way to lose everything they had was by living in such a way that spoke of never caring about who they hurt for their own whims. Even if it was sometimes only themselves. 

Once close enough, Hollow greeted them with a half bow. They were the only one to bother with any attempt at pleasantries. Hornet stepped forward. "Before anything, the seconds must confer." She declared. 

Emilitia laughed, an airy sound like she was satisfied to be the only one that understood some joke. "If you're going to insist on prolonging this with prattle, out with it, then."

Okay, not a fantastic start. But Hornet had promised not to escalate. They watched her take a steadying breath.

"Lady Emilitia. Can we agree that it's in our best interests for all parties to leave here unscathed?" She began.

"So you assume to know the thoughts and intentions of everyone around you, youngling? If the baron finds it in his best interest to retain his honor, and the princeling does not, then the priorities here are clear enough."

"I only _mean_ ," her frustration only rose, "that if honor is the baron's goal, we can compromise on that peaceably. There is no need to resort to such an archaic practice if we can negotiate with civility."

"Oh, of course, of course. The first step to that would be for the challenged to apologize to the challenger for their impertinence."

Hollow already had their letter of concession, and pulled it before their sister could bristle any further.

"Ah-ah!" The baron admonished suddenly, voice brash, "Your insults to me were public. It's only fair that your apology _also_ be public. It's of no use to me _here!"_ Hollow froze, perplexed. Emilitia looked giddy.

"... You would seek to humiliate them in front of people, so to provide a boost of fame to your own name." Hornet spoke slowly and bluntly. 

"Watch your _tone_ , spiderling. I only seek to right what's been wronged. Surely the princeling can agree that to be a better alternative to subjecting themself to the terrors of combat?"

The baron wasn't looking at Hollow at all, this entire time. Hollow wasn't sure if he thought them simple, on top of clearly assuming them a coward. 

Is this how everyone saw them?

"My sibling does not choose peace out of _cowardice_ . They choose it out of _compassion_ , something you're steadily proving to be completely unearned. You never had any intention of fighting them at all, did you?" Hornet continued, outrage finally winning out.

"If you would _like_ to make a fight of it, I've got the weapons right here." Emilitia patted the briefcase. Hollow could only stand and watch, having no idea what to hope Hornet would say next. 

"... Show them to me." She stated.

"The weapons do not come out unless the peace talk has ceased. Do you agree on their behalf that their apology is the better alternative, or not?" Emilitia spoke with that plastered grin lodged in her voice.

"I agree to _nothing_ on my sibling's behalf, they will make their own choice. But as their second, I will not agree to initiate the duel, or initiate any agreements between the challengers, without first _seeing the weapons_." 

"Such impudence for our laws from a creature of the beasts! Do you wish to challenge me as well? Will you show us clearly what you think of our fine society?" Emilitia challenged, all smug.

" _My_ father is your _King_ . _I_ am the daughter of Hallownest itself, I _know our laws._ And there are no laws at play here, only egotistical _games._ You didn't even bring a _medic,_ such a basic tenant of the duel code you act like you follow so literally. Open the damned briefcase, before I brand you both _traitors_ myself!" Hornet's voice rang out in the ambient cavern. Hollow stood tall behind her, hands folded before them, posed demure and assured.

"... I believe I am ready to concede an apology. There is no need to fight," the baron gritted out. Emilitia just scoffed, interrupting him.

"Oh, come off it, you pointless fool." She opened the briefcase. It was empty. "I told you we should at _least_ bring the weapons, but you were so _scared_ to let it get this far. I suppose you were right to be." She shut it again, letting it drop. 

"At least this will make a fun story to pass along." Emilitia hummed, apparently done with the situation, simply breezing past everyone to leave. 

"You came only for your _entertainment_ , then?" Hornet sniped as she passed. 

"What do you care? You won." Hornet nearly started forward, but caught herself. 

"My family will _not_ forget this sort of insult." She warned. 

"And yet, my pretty tower still awaits me in the city. 'Ta." Emilitia departed.

Hornet's eye turned on the baron. Everyone knew Hornet did not possess the power to strip him of his title, especially since nothing had actually happened. There'd be outrage among the nobility if she tried, even for someone no one particularly liked. But it wouldn't be about him, it'd be about the implication that their own wealth and statuses might be at the mercy of a foreign royal. Hornet was no leader of Hallownest. No matter how Hollow thought she might already deserve to be.

"Get out." She commanded simply.

He did, scurrying. Hollow offered a polite little bow for him on his way out.

* * *

The walk back to the palace was silent, while Hornet _fumed._ What a monumental waste of time, and what disreputable wastes of _space_ . How _dare_ they try and take advantage of her sibling, their own _princeling_ like that. Did status mean nothing unless it was worn by oneself, so one could flaunt it and feel important? There were responsibilities. There were loyalties. That was the way it was _supposed_ to be. But none of it seemed to matter if they could be exploited to serve oneself. 

The only vindication here was that none of this had actually been her fault. Neither of the siblings had done wrong, if this had all just been a plot by an avaricious cur in the first place. She wondered if his kid was in on it, or if the youngling had been exploited for a convenient excuse as well. 

These sorts of people would have no place at any palace function, or with any ventures in royal business. Hornet would make sure of it. If they didn't care who they insulted, neither would she. She was not princess of Hallownest, but she had enough social status to make a difference. And she already wasn't shy about making her opinions known to the king and queen. 

She eyed her sibling. The biggest failure of the day was the possibility that they might feel ashamed. It was their reputation of pacifism that had been taken advantage of. Their kindness. Those things should be _protected._ Did everyone _want_ a warmongering cynic to one day possibly come to power?

"... Not everyone is like him, you know." She said, looking straight forward as she walked again. "People so greedy don't deserve what they have, and it's a shame they can be so loud. But people love you. You're their princeling. And I love you, for your conviction in your beliefs. You shouldn't worry about this happening again. Gods help them if it _does_."

Hornet was often guessing at what was important to say, but that was generally fine so long as she believed it. Hollow did regard her, and signed back something they'd both learned early enough that they could do it quickly. "I love you too."

They were both meant to be woken up soon, so tried to creep into the palace through a side path for the retainers. It seemed they were home free to sneak back off to their separate rooms.

Hornet had leapt back a strong 15 paces at the shock of the White Lady's appearance, when they rounded a corner and found she was just waiting there. Hollow had, of course, frozen to the spot, like maybe their mother couldn't see them if they didn't move.

"Good morning, children. Pray tell me, what either of you have decided to be so dutiful about that you would rise so early without complaint. Nay, without a word to anyone in the palace?" She spoke smoothly, simply watching them. Okay, this was a time for reconnaissance. Ascertain what the enemy knows, do not give anything away beyond what is confirmed. 

"We haven't been up long," Hornet spoke, still a little further down the hallway.

"No? Perhaps the retainers were misinformed, then, when a few of them told me they heard the sound of a skylight opening before dawn. The hinges on some of them creak so dreadfully in their age." She eyed them both. Even though she wasn't particularly doing anything, Hornet got the sense of a particularly spiderish threat display about her as she stood tall and still, like something already poised to strike at the wrong movement. "There is little to be found in the way of duty or entertainment in the city at dawn. Indeed, not even the stags would yet be awake. Although, I do suppose all that quiet would make it an ideal time for plans to be made, or, perhaps, scores to be settled."

Shit. Okay, Hornet thought there _might_ still be some hope for damage control. 

"We just-- Hollow _wait,_ " she could not dash forward fast enough to stop them from retrieving the concession they'd written from within their cloak, and handing it off to the Queen. She glanced between them, unamused, and opened it. 

"... _Golden child._ " Hornet grumbled, glaring at them. They didn't seem particularly sheepish.

A sound, one just as disorientingly out of character as the King skittering to the door and calling after Hornet had been, had them both snapping their faces to the Lady at attention. She had _snorted,_ and a hand now covered the lower half of her face.

"... You two are incorrigible." She handed the letter back to Hollow, and turned to glide off. "Come, now. Make use of your early morning to be punctual about arriving to breakfast." 

Hornet looked back and forth between her sibling and retreating stepmother, and demanded Hollow let her see the letter. They knelt to show her:

* * *

_A Concession_

Your lordship, I would like to offer you a formal set of apologies for the injustices wrought against you that I am personally privy to. For the sake of clarity, and of thoroughness, I shall do so here in the form of an itemized list for your perusal.

-I am sorry that you did not possess the skills necessary to read the offering of peace I'd sent you, in the form of the bouquet you received yesterday. I might suggest that, should you ever again find yourself confronted with the Queen's popular favored language, you may ask your courier to translate for you. The one I had deployed for you, for instance, is from a family of mushroom farmers on the city's outskirts, and she had been more than qualified.

-I am sorry for your misunderstanding of our arrangement at the previously lovely picnic we both attended, in that you appeared to think your issued challenge was met with my consent. It is true that I possess no voice like the one you are so fond of, but many in attendance who'd witnessed the commotion are sufficiently aware that I am more than capable of other means of communication, had you waited a single minute for one. 

-In addition to that, I am sorry that you presumed to make any decision in the name of an attending royal. If you are not aware of the legal implications involved with an open, public threat to one, I suggest you research the definition of the word "treason", in the event that I decide that your words had, in fact, been a confession of harmful intent against my own safety, or that of my young sister. 

-Speaking of Deepnest's princess, I am also very sorry that you found it proper to get into a public argument against a child. I hope your pride finds some consolation in the fact that one so many summers your junior had the wisdom to try to mitigate your outrage by allowing you an exit from the premises, in her generous attempt not to embarrass you further.

-I am also deeply sorry that your small child was forced to bear witness to the legacy they will one day inherit from you, while so very young, and in front of all their friends.

-Finally, know that I am dreadfully sorry for your invitation to a gathering of polite society on royal grounds. I have deduced that such a place is not where you belong, and you can rest assured that such a mistake shall not be made in the future.

Before we discuss this matter any further, I shall give you a moment to think on whether the place you do belong is back in your home, while my sister and I ensure you will never again be bothered by anyone of social note, for they will all want to keep their reputations untarnished by interaction with you after this. Or, if your place is in the dungeon for treachery, should your nail strike true after I have made it perfectly clear that I decline the invitation to duel. I remain a loyal child of your sovereigns, and have sworn as such never to raise a blade against their beloved subjects. That oath holds precedence to every other dictum of honor in the kingdom, as all know me to hold Hallownest dear to my heart. 

So, if neither post-duel option is to your fancy, you are more than welcome to drop this whole charade, and then apologize to my sister for causing her worry. If for whatever reason you still seek a fight, she already carries her own needle, and has made it clear to me that she would be more than happy to oblige you herself, in defense of her own honor.

Your devoted servant of the people and offspring of the gods, 

Hollow 

* * *

"... Hollow, holy _shit._ " Hornet said simply, after reading for a moment. They pinched at her cheek a bit, scolding her for the language.

The White Lady nearly tried to have the letter framed. Instead, it somehow found its way around court a few times, trading hands among the nobility, and lending Hollow a burgeoning reputation beyond their silence and passivity. To say nothing of the reputation it solidified for the baron, who was seldom seen after that. 

The hands that first started trading the letter around, after it mysteriously disappeared from Hollow's possession, belonged to the parents of some of Hornet's school friends. Hornet would deny her role in propagating any sort of gossip. But she was never very insistent about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I FINALLY FOUND AO3'S BUILT IN TEXT BREAK BUTTON 
> 
> also, would it really be a fic of mine if i didnt have to pull some bullshit like reading through and mangling the entire 18th century irish code duello to write it? no,


	2. Where do Princesses come from?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The daughter of two previous foes is curious about her legacy, some time in her early adolescence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /bangs this out while chugging like 5 cans of root beer in an amount of time short enough that im embarrassed to admit any specifics
> 
> have 4k words of hornet with her parents and just a shit ton of headcanons

When Hornet had first thought to be curious about her lineage, she'd been far too young to understand the full answer to her query about where their royalty came from. She'd asked her mother, and after a moment of thought-- for she clearly hadn't been expecting this question so early-- Herrah simply explained that she became queen because she had been the strongest. And Hornet was princess, because she was Herrah's daughter. 

This had been enough for Hornet then, and had instilled a sense of pride in the child that she'd carry with her for a long time. If her mother was queen because she was the strongest, and Hornet would one day herself be queen, that logically meant that Hornet would grow up to be the strongest, too. She wore the mantle of princess like the badge of honor it was. "Princess" meant strength and potential, and it meant that she was a child of her mother. And she was so very proud of her mother.

As she grew, and began her schooling, Hornet had been slowly introduced to the intricacies of what her heritance meant, to herself and to history. Midwife would tell her stories about her mother's youth, how Herrah had been a gifted politician, fearsome warrior, and effective spellweaver, and how those skills had helped her claim the throne. 

Hornet’s position of privilege had made it easy for her in childhood to never independently consider the idea that, before her mother, there had been someone _else_ in power. But any change in leadership meant detractors, and loyalists to the previous regime. She had only been a little older when she started hearing _different_ stories about her mother, ones that spoke less of clever politicking, and more of strategic envenomation. Hornet had initially dismissed these particular whispers as slander. But eventually, she forced herself to take a critical eye to all sides, and their opinions on the queen. After all, this sort of thing would affect _her_ one day, too. She needed to stay tuned in to what her people thought. 

Midwife had not been shy about answering Hornet's questions, once she'd gotten old enough to start asking more difficult ones. She described Herrah's claim to power during a time of unstable leadership as a necessary chain of events. Yes, there had been a coup. But few would call it treachery. There had been trouble brewing that the old monarch had been unable to handle, and Deepnest needed a strong ruler. 

"Who were they?"

"Oh, I can hardly even remember. Some childless old spider with a terrible photophobia. I was never much for politics before my service to your mother, but even I knew his fall would have caused a crisis of succession anyhow, at best." The permanent smile she wore split slightly, as she cleaned her teeth through the opening on her mask. 

"What 'trouble' had they been unable to handle?" The young girl pressed on. 

Midwife's mask opened a bit wider, rows of idle teeth on full display during her maintenance. She was unhurried. "An ambitious trend of expansionism from a certain neighboring front had begun to threaten us." The smiling halves caught a gleam from a nearby spell tapestry. "I believe its perpetrator has been recently tutoring you in soul focus."

Ah. That made sense. 

Hornet went to her mother, then, for more first-hand accounts. Her questions were more careful, here. She wanted to sate her curiosity, but at the same time didn't want to sound disloyal. Herrah hadn't been offended at the request to recount the year of her insurrection.

"Honestly, I'm glad you feel like you can ask me directly. That tells me you trust me to tell you the truth, though you know bias would benefit us both. I'm sure by now you've heard all sorts of things about that time, and about me." She'd been weaving something with protective sigils in it, and didn't need to stop to carry on the conversation.

"Not in detail. Midwife told me a little of the old king. How he wouldn't have been able to handle the Pale Wyrm on our doorstep." As a small child, she might have sat with her mother and watched her weave. Now she only stood nearby, favoring eye contact. 

"Your father had been a large part of it, yes. The previous king's reluctance to act aside, he had also been old, frail, and had not yet announced who he'd wanted to inherit. His eventual death would have been the perfect opportunity for Hallownest to invade."

"...My father wanted to _annex_ us?" To be honest, she was more insulted than surprised. "Why didn't the king just appoint a general to inherit? Wouldn't that have made us stronger?"

Herrah actually chuckled. "That seems as though it should have been obvious, right? But it was one of those things that might have been good for Deepnest, but came at a risk to the king himself. If that appointed general had any competence, they would have had every incentive to do what I did, and propel themself to the throne without waiting for him to die naturally. Why give our enemies anymore time?"

"So he was a coward. He valued his own life over the kingdom," Hornet decided, with no hesitation.

"That had been my reasoning as well. And so I rallied those who agreed with me to an army, and that army appointed me Queen with his successful deposition."

"You raised an _army_?"

"One that was first made up of my most enthusiastic followers, and then previous opposers who converted once I proved my strength. I believe you know their remaining numbers as my Devout."

Hornet was a little awed, though she was too proud to show it outright. As the information all sank in, it invited a realization about her own identity.

"... Were Hallownest and Deepnest still enemies, when you…?"

"Hmm? It isn't like you to trail off like that, honeycomb. Say your piece." 

Hornet bristled a little at the old endearment, successfully emboldened. 

"When you asked the Wyrm for a child. Was I a peace treaty?" 

Herrah looked directly at her, now, and stilled her weaving. "No. Our ceasefire came long before the Infection, after I made it clear to him in _no_ uncertain terms that his colonization efforts would be met with _war_ , not worship," she said, with that assured tone she often used to bid her subjects accept her decrees as fact. 

"It is true that things were tense between our lands for a long time. He even made a treaty with the Mantis tribe, once, where he tried to have them act as bulwark between us to keep the spiders out of Hallownest entirely. But the situation has long been different. I sincerely doubt the mantises want much to do with them nowadays, after the Root allowed their deposed princess asylum within their kingdom a few years back. She’s apparently a lovely girl, by the way. Terrifying warrior, I hear."

Hornet thought for another moment, still unsatisfied. "... So, if not a treaty, I was your condition to agree to dream, so that what happened to our old king would not happen to _you_ ," she reasoned. No one would doubt the legitimacy of Herrah's only child, especially not one that doubled as a godling. 

"I made my condition," she said, in that same even tone, "So that what I _did_ to the old king would never happen to _you._ I did not know if I would be around long enough to raise you. I wanted to do whatever I could to ensure your eventual claim would be strong, in the event that I had to Dream too early for you to take power. Ideally, Deepnest would live on under you." 

Hornet almost spoke, but Herrah halted her. 

"But all that aside, _Deepnest_ would live on no matter what, regardless of whether or not my bloodline stayed in power. I wanted you to exist out of love, not _just_ out of want for an heir. The godsblood in you was my gift to _you_ , Hornet. Remember the context of how the world had been when you were born. We had no idea how effective the seal would be. Princess or not, I simply did not want you to ever have to suffer the Infection." She spoke more quietly, now.

"We can agree that the old king had been a selfish fool. But you know very well that there is one life in particular that _I_ value over our kingdom, as well. We knew that a demi-godling would never fall ill, would always attract admiration, and would be assured a mind and body that would remain strong and sharp so long as her will did. We're still learning what you're capable of, Hornet. And I thank the dark every day that I'll be around long enough to find out."

Herrah vacated her seat to kneel before her daughter, pulling her close with two gentle claws on her shoulders, and two holding her hands.

"You're going to be incredible. And not just because of the potential in your blood. You are _already_ amazing."

Hornet was a princess with dignity, and thought herself far too _old_ for hugs even besides that. Her mother disagreed with that second assertion. Hornet did not mind, this once. 

* * *

Hornet's curiosity with that one part of her lineage had been satisfied for now _,_ but there was still a whole second side to it. She wasn't really allowed to forget that, nowadays. Her education in Hallownest meant she now spoke differently from her friends at home in Deepnest, and her friends and hobbies in Deepnest meant she did not act like other Hallownest children. To top it off, she looked just enough like a bug from both lands to not really resemble someone from either. She was her own category entirely, and it had not taken her long to decide that it was best that she owned that. 

Hornet would not describe her relationship with her father as a particularly close one, even if he was a constant reminder of how she was a force of her own that didn't _need_ categorizing. When one's biological parent was a heavily worshiped deity, one did not often feel the need to justify their existence. 

The Pale King taught her how to manipulate the very power of soul within herself. The Weavers could do that too, with their silk, but Hornet had been taught that she could do more, and apparently had far more reserves of power within her than the average group of Weavers working on a spell. It had been decided that he would be the only adequate teacher for spellcasting, as he'd once been for Hollow. It was during a snack break in one such lesson that she'd decided to bring up her questions for him.

"You lived through much of Hallownest history, didn't you?" She spoke while they rested, sitting in a shaded area of the courtyard. As much as anything near the White Palace (or near her glowing father) could be described as shaded. 

"We define history as all of time with written record. By that definition, Hallownest history began with me, and I have lived through all of it." He answered with no hesitation, annoyingly literal as ever, then regarded her briefly. "Is there something in particular you're curious about? Our founding? The battle of the Blackwyrm?"

She barely kept from rolling her eyes. "No, _thank you_ , we went through all of that enough already in school. It's just that I learned recently that you were once a colonizer." She was then disappointed that he didn't look offended. At least that would have been funny. 

"I had tried to be, yes. After the moth tribe was enthralled to me, and I'd gained their land as my own, I thought to do the same with Deepnest. I assume that is what you speak of."

"But it didn't work."

"Spiders are something of a photophobic species."

"And _when_ it didn't work, you tried to take it by force." None of her guesses were questions. She figured they didn't need to be.

"When it didn't work, I thought I'd simply keep expanding our settlements, further and further. So yes, I had tried to establish colonies. Your mother threatened war if I continued." He explained, unruffled. A lot about that bothered her. But her curiosity remained pragmatic.

"Why didn't you fight? Raise some sort of holy army, or something? You might have won the land."

"There were bigger problems on the horizon that made expansion risky. I could not afford to fracture my kingdom and attention with strife for an indeterminate amount of time. This is why the borders remain where they are."

"Was it the Infection?"

"It was."

Hornet knew enough about that. It had gone on when she had been very young, and had apparently acquainted her with death early in life. But she didn't particularly remember much of it. She stayed inside a lot, and people she sort of knew would sometimes be gone, and no longer spoken of. This had been normal. Funerals were held weekly for multiple souls at a time.

And, of course, she knew that she existed because of the pact with a few select bugs known as Dreamers, who were to be a fail-safe against the divine origins of the plague. Once again, Hornet absolutely did not need to justify her existence. But that didn't stop her from being curious about it. 

"You can see the future," she said rather suddenly.

"You've known that for years, now."

"Why did you agree to provide my mother with an heir, if the plague was just going to end without the Dreamers?"

He looked right at her, now. His attention was a heavy thing. So was, she knew, a question that effectively amounted to requesting that her father tell her why she was hatched at all. To her own humiliation, she couldn't help shying away from his gaze. She tried to play it off by taking a bite from her lunch. To be fair, soul depletion was very draining, and her father at least made sure they had the best snacks prepared for these lessons. 

She caught a flicker of his wings in her periphery, before he spoke. "Foresight is not sight the way you would recognize it. Our eyes show us whatever they're able to. In most cases, that is what presently exists in front of us, varying in degrees of distance or clarity. Though you and I share this sense now, I did not always have it. I instead navigated the world by seeing what _could_ be, not what was."

She tried to imagine that, vague as it was. Whatever he saw on her face caused him to sigh. 

"Humor me a hypothetical, if you will."

"Do I have to?" She quipped before she could think better of it. He could be so meandering when he didn't know how to explain something concisely. 

"Only for a moment. Imagine you're in a tunnel."

"Am I a worm, here?"

The king shut his eyes, and took a silent breath. Hornet narrowly avoided giggling with another well timed bite.

"Imagine you're in a tunnel. There is one way out, and you have the option to consult with people who know the route well. Let’s say there are one hundred of them. Ten of them have told you it’s completely safe. Seven tell you there’s only some minor obstruction. One says you’ll find something profoundly ridiculous, like a talking mushroom. The other eighty-two all say that that way lies near-certain death, though the specific dangers vary slightly by account. You must exit the tunnel. Which outcome, then, do you prepare for?”

“The one where I might die,” Hornet conceded quickly.

“Right. You understand the correlation between repeated instances, and likelihood.” 

“... So you don’t only see one future,” she realized.

“Because the future is a thing created, not ordained. The only things I can see with certainty are the nearest to me in time.” 

Hornet watched him, a chill forming in her stomach.

"... How many bad endings _did_ you see?"

He only hummed, looking off at some indeterminable point of the palace. "Hundreds, maybe. It was difficult to keep count, when they were all so similar. I obsessed over them, to the degree that they would come to me unbidden. I like to believe that I have always understood the concept of inevitability to be a lie. But under the right circumstances, it can feel like the only thing that is real."

He looked at her, again. Not in the way he did that made her feel overly _seen_ . Sometimes, like now, he would look at people like he wasn't seeing them as they were. Like he was looking at some other version of them that he _expected_ to see instead of who they were in front of him. He got that look a lot with his wife, and with Hollow. 

She couldn't know what he saw for sure, of course. But it certainly seemed like a disassociation of some kind, because this had happened enough times that she knew her next words or actions would for some reason surprise him, no matter what they were.

So, she went with: "So which outcome was this? A safe one, or the one with the talking mushroom?"

The king did blink himself out of wherever he'd been rather abruptly. 

"... That second one."

Hornet finished off her snack. They sat in silence for maybe a minute, before something else began to bother her.

"... I know why I'm here. What about Hollow? They're your only child, but not even heir apparent like me."

The king paused. "... I will freely tell you anything you'd like to know of yourself. But the circumstances of your sibling's origins are to be told as _they_ allow, if they ever do."

"What makes them so special?" Hollow knew about _her_ origins, after all. They'd apparently been present soon after her hatching to meet her, though the first time she actually could remember meeting them had come much later.

"... You are well aware that no one in existence has ever been quite like either of you. This is true for many reasons, all different on both of your accounts."

She supposed she was going to have to be content with that, for now. The king and queen could get so strangely melancholy about Hollow, sometimes. 

(Hollow themself was also no stranger to melancholy. There were days, though they weren’t frequent, when Hollow sometimes wouldn't move or acknowledge anyone for hours at a time. There were also days when Hollow couldn't keep still for even a moment, days where they'd pick up a strange project like trying to count every lumafly lamp in the palace, and would pick at their carapace without ceasing, drawing little pinpricks black blood. Either way, it was clear that they weren't all there, on those days. Hornet once asked them where they had gone, after one episode of stillness that lasted almost two full nights. Hollow had described it to her as being lost in fog. She had taken that to literally be what they saw, for Hollow did not possess the Queen's tendency for poetry, nor the King's habit of sometimes trying to relate ideas by metaphor. They always just explained things as they were, and it had certainly _seemed_ like they weren’t seeing anything at all, anyway. 

Hornet never questioned the black blood. It could just be a god thing. Perhaps black ran through one or both of their parents, as well, and she'd see it if they ever came to harm. And if not, plenty of things already made them just as odd as she was, and this was just another one that didn’t matter. Hollow’s tears were black, too.)

"Fine, then. Did you agree to raise me here for better relations with Deepnest? Mother tells me there's officially been peace for a long time, but you had gone as far as asking the mantises to keep us _trapped_." She couldn't keep the accusatory tone out of her voice. She had not been alive to bear any of these personal grudges, but, it felt a little strange to her that there seemed to be no bad blood left between her mother and father. Grudges like that shouldn’t be light things. Hornet was fine with being angry in her mother's stead. 

He apparently hadn't expected the sudden hostility, but his look of surprise was a muted, fleeting thing, as always. "That is one benefit of having you know both sides of your heritage. There would be no point in lying about that. You are a new generation, and hold the future of Deepnest entirely in your hands. In the end, though, you'll do what you please with all your knowledge of our laws and customs, whether it benefits Hallownest or not." He notably did not acknowledge the mantis thing.

"So _investing_ in me really is the main reason I’m here?"

" _One_ main reason is that your mother wanted you to know as much of your background as possible. She worried you may feel ill at ease in yourself otherwise." He barely even let her finish the question, and had taken on a slightly sharper tone.

"Another _main reason_ is that I am your _father._ Should I not share responsibility for your upbringing?" He eyed her, unamused. Hornet ceded this little battle, for now. 

They really ought to finish their lesson. Being King was endless work, and so getting blocks of his time scheduled for her was sort of uncommon. So, wasn't taking one more moment of it to ask about the future just… practical? 

(Even if seeking his counsel on anything often felt like a blow to her pride.)

"... What's a likely future for Deepnest, then, under me?" She let her voice betray nothing, as much as she could. 

He must have already once checked on that, because he didn't even take another second to look through anything. 

"Continuation of your mother's legacy. You will grow, eventually taught everything you need to be, and like her, you will be an autocrat. I see no likely fall of the spider kingdom by your hand. Eventually, you will select your own heir, probably a child of some husband."

"And if I take a wife instead?" She asked, just to be contrary.

"It matters not. Husband, wife, neither, many, or no spouse at all, you will still be responsible for selecting the next ruler. Deepnest will live on, whether you decide to raise a child with any sort of partner and ascend them to the throne, or pass the crown's lineage to some chosen minister and their family."

She didn't miss the choice of the word "raise" over "bear", but her minor curiosity about whether a part-wyrm-god-half-spider-sort-of-bug could produce their own eggs was _very_ much outweighed by discomfort at the thought of having that kind of conversation with her _father_.

"What brought about these sorts of questions?" He asked in turn.

"I should know things. It's not like I get many chances to ask you anything," she answered flatly, expressing little care for his inconvenience. 

He seemed to have no rebuttal for that. 

"We must continue your lesson. Is there anything else before we do?"

She thought, for a second. What to ask a prophetic parent, who was also immortal, and a King. There ought to be millions of things. But she had set out to learn about herself, today.

"Am I able to die?" She went with.

He stilled for a second. Looked at her, but was oddly quick about looking away. She wondered if he'd seen something he hadn't wanted to, and then she abruptly felt guilty for asking.

"... Yes. But not easily. And like so many things in your future, it may not come at all without you willing it so."

What power she held. She couldn't wait to effectively learn how to wield it. She stood again, ready to continue with soul casting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also if im slow about responding to comments i am sorry and will get to them, thank u, im probably just either at work or quietly derealizing in bed (aka "vibing")


	3. Queens and Etiquette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professionalism can be a weird thing among royalty.

The Queen of Deepnest had been invited to sit in on a procedural court negotiation at the White Palace. It concerned both her realm and the Pale King's, as they needed to formally go over the ins and outs of official things between the two sovereign nations, like exportation and volume of traded goods per season. It was important now that they were sharing their advances in textiles and medicine, among other things. 

Herrah was no stranger to these sorts of things. She was an active ruler, and wanted to know as much of how her kingdom worked as she was able, to better cultivate the ability to improve it. She had taken power through strength, but she'd _ kept  _ power through competence. Competence came with study, patience, and the skill to make difficult decisions when they needed to be made. She hoped she was a good queen, but just as importantly, she knew how to project onto everyone that she had conviction she  _ was. _

It was all stressful, sure. To the point that when things were boring, it was usually a relief. 

But by the stars above and void below, the Pale Court was just. Just  _ so _ boring.

Things were getting done, sure, but at a snail's crawl. It seemed as though the council here simply loved to hear themselves talk. Everyone needed to have a word in, even if it didn't particularly move things along, and there was an order of turn-taking. And the King and Queen just sat there letting it happen. And it wasn't like they particularly needed to-- any word from them would be the final one. They took that sentiment literally, seeming to try and absorb as much information before saying their piece. Then everyone would move onto the next thing, and the cycle continued. 

It didn't help that the court's archaic rules of etiquette extended even here. There seemed to be a strict procedure for saying what you wanted to say, no matter what it was. It was helpful in some ways; no one interrupted each other, for example. But when two members got into a disagreement, it turned into a mini debate club meeting, complete with introductory preamble and conclusion, and then a goddamn handshake.

Root owed her big for this. 

For being foreign, Herrah enjoyed some benefit of the doubt. Well, either for that reason, or because 90% of the room was absolutely terrified of her. No one save for the local king or queen would dare to call her out for, say, ending someone's 3 minute run on sentence by stating the logical decision the table was already coming to, or outright telling someone their idea contributed nothing. And even then, the two co-rulers never said anything when she did.

Root would even politely agree with her and move proceedings along, sometimes, though she seemed content enough to stay quiet and watch Herrah make a ducal administrator nearly wet himself. And as for her husband: if it weren't for the way he sat still and seemed to keep his eye on everyone, Herrah would have wondered if he was even paying attention. The little bastard had the benefit of being able to watch prophesies happen behind his eyes for some entertainment if he decided to just check out of the meeting entirely. But he sort of just looked like a rather serious and attentive statue, that doubled as an especially pointy lamp with no off switch.

This was all very little like Herrah's own court. When it was her heading the table, she liked to ensure no time was wasted. She would also sometimes even  _ encourage _ people to get heated. That showed her they cared about what was happening, which was far more important to her than propriety where it served little function. People could generally be civil if you respected them, and if they respected you in turn. And if they don't, you throw them on their asses or pump them full of venom. There was really no need for all  _ this, _ Herrah thought.

And she knew she wasn't alone on this. The Wyrm and Root weren't the only leaders in Deepnest. 

Vespa was a close friend of Herrah's, and she had a style of leading all her own. There was a common misconception about bees, and about the absolute power held by a Hive's Queen. Vespa was an important figure, yes, but she'd be nothing without the terrifyingly efficient unity built by the hivelings. Vespa was more of a diplomatic General heading their army, and a beloved one at that. Hivelings oversaw production and architecture, and she was entrusted with the security and distribution of the Hive's treasures, knowledge, and stores of honey. The latter of which she was apparently having some difficulty keeping Herrah's daughter out of. She'd written Herrah, once, about how she couldn't for the life of her figure out how Hornet was able to bypass security forces that a horde of  _ garpedes _ could not penetrate. Herrah had written back that, to be fair, a garpede's arsenal did not include the deployment of big sad eyes at the Hive knights standing guard. 

And beyond Vespa, there were the Mantis Lords. Herrah knew little about them, only that they were sisters that ruled as three equals, and that their power appeared to rely entirely on their statuses as the strongest team of warriors in the realm. They could theoretically be usurped at any time by new, stronger challenging mantises, but it seemed few would take the risk against them either out of respect, self preservation, or both.

And, she supposed, there was the strange god of Nightmare. He was allegedly some sort of king in his own right, but seemed less concerned with any concept of ruling than he was with running his circus troupe like a common ringmaster. Like the rest of them, he had worshipers, but he seemed to command his realm as an extension of it, rather than call himself a separate ruler on its behalf. He was an odd one, but so was the Wyrm. 

(He'd remarked to her once, unbidden, that the nightmares that clung to Herrah were old and dusty, but trailed off of her from somewhere bone deep. He said they dripped especially thick from her needle. Herrah had evenly responded that, if he wanted, she'd be more than happy to draw that needle and show him a new nightmare  _ first-hand _ . He'd smiled in that frightening way he did, like it'd been carved haphazardly into his face.

Unlike the Wyrm, Herrah found  _ him _ a lot of fun. And he was a pretty good dancer, to boot.)

Ah, the Root was standing. It appeared she was going to dismiss proceedings for lunch. Herrah idly wondered how long she'd zoned out.

* * *

Even  _ lunch _ was an exercise in a thousand rules. Herrah had thought Hornet was exaggerating when she complained about having to adhere to Pale Court table manners. She made a mental note to apologize to her later. 

The Wyrm had made the choice to abstain from a meal in favor of spending the hour in his workshop, provoking some gentle admonishment from his wife. 

(It was utterly bizarre to watch those two, sometimes. Their hands lingered when they touched, but when either of them remembered they might be observed, they'd pull away. Queen now or no, Herrah probably wouldn't put up with that excessive caution herself. Let people stare, for all she cared. 

But she could also understand the idea that maybe the two just wanted that sort of thing to be only for them.)

The meal in front of her was some critter roasted and spiced still in its shell. There were roughly a billion tiny forks and utensils set around the plate, probably for cracking it apart and eating different pieces, or something. The retainer who set the food out was watching Herrah, and doing a poor job of pretending they weren't. 

Herrah looked them in the eye, and bit straight into the roast, baked carapace splintering between her fangs while she ate. The retainer looked faint. They left the room quickly after that.

"It is always a pleasure to have you over for a visit, Queen Herrah," the Root nodded, with that sweet little smile she got when she was trying to act like she wasn't making fun of you at least a little. 

"And it's always a pleasure to visit, though I wouldn't categorize my presence here today as just that." Herrah set about cracking her meal's shell open with a fork and what she was pretty sure was some sort of tiny food crowbar.

"True. Important affairs must be dealt with. I apologize for the rather lengthy processions of court. My Wyrm prefers his council to be thorough."

"You don't say."

"It has its benefits."

"I'm sure. Forgive me if I've made it a bit  _ too _ obvious that I'm unaccustomed to such… pedantry."

"Surely there are kinder ways of putting it?"

"And there are  _ worse _ ways I could put it."

The Root tried not to laugh, too proper to show unrestrained mirth in her own home. Herrah often liked to entertain herself by trying to get her friend to slip up on that account.

"Of course, far be it from me to object to how the Wyrm likes his meetings to play out. He's the one who has to sit through them with some frequency." Herrah thought herself grateful she could at least get along with her Devout outside of business. She can't imagine the Wyrm could count any friends among that council. (Would it be too mean to wonder if he actually had any friends at all?) The Root poured herself some more tea, her face looking _ carefully _ placid.

"Dearest friend, I believe you may be misreading my husband's affectivity for this sort of work."

"Is that right? He looked attentive enough."

"Hmm. Did you happen to notice his hands?"

Herrah blinked. "...Clasped together in front of him on the table, the entire time I saw."

"But the other set?"

"Huh, right. No, I didn't see them."

"He was working on a pocket watch under the table, that entire time."

Herrah snorted. _ "No way." _

"The  _ entire  _ time. And if I may speak with bluntness, I  _ may _ tell you truly that between you and my Wyrm, I could not pinpoint which of you found it more difficult to keep engaged." The Root watched her with amusement. So apparently Herrah's own bored daydreaming hadn't gone unnoticed. She should probably be embarrassed. Probably.

"Alright, okay," Herrah just chuckled. "Fine then, how are  _ you _ keeping sane through these meetings, then, if you're apparently keeping your attention on them so  _ perfectly?" _

The Root looked at her as if she'd just asked a particularly funny question. 

"I never said I was. Did I not just admit to how much time I spent simply people-watching?"

Herrah stared. There was a beat, and then they both snickered.

* * *

The White Lady was interested in the workings of Deepnest's court, though she would admit to her trepidation if asked. It didn't come from any fear of the spiders, of course. They posed no threat to her, and Herrah was a fine hostess. It's just that the Lady always held some instinctive discomfort for lands and life that were not connected with her.

She'd been grown in Hallownest, and the roots of her ascended form ran deep through it for centuries, continuing now. She knew the soil, the plant life, (the sort that Unn had not been responsible for in their own little nook of the world, anyway,) the rocks, and the people. But the spiders had come here from some far away ancestral home, and brought with them their way of life. She'd not seen how they came to be, and so had an instinct to steer clear of their mushrooms and other agricultural projects. Dissimilar plants and fungi could be so combative for nutrients in the soil, after all. 

But reason won out, as it should. And if she could not reason herself fully out of her territorial discomfort, then she would at least be gracious to her guests outwardly, and make the effort to think well of them. It would only be polite, after all.

Herrah had invited her to court to talk about trading food. Hallownest grew some staple crops that would not thrive in Deepnest's dark, and it would benefit them to set up regular trade for the local edible fungi in return. It was true that spiders were largely carnivorous, (sometimes to the point of cannibalism, some stories go,) but padding meals in lean times was something every civilization did. It would go a long way to keeping everyone fed. And so the Lady sat at the court of spiders, while the conversation focused on specialized trade routes. 

It was going… a little raucously.

Two of Herrah's devout specifically argued about whether the route ought to go through the fungal wilds, or through Greenpath. One argued for speed and distance, and the other argued for keeping out of the way of the mantis tribe, in case any of their less-than-friendly neighbors noticed the caravans and decided to take up careers as highwaymen.

Herrah listened to both sides, asking questions and making minor opinions known rather than only making the final calls. To be fair, both sides made some good points. People just sort of piped up whenever they had an opinion, and that would either get things more excited, or cause an impromptu yay-or-nay vote.

Also, Herrah had a child on her knee. Now, it was logically a good thing for a Princess to sit in on government proceedings. But Hornet's enthusiasm for it had lasted about five minutes, and now she just played with a little weaving project on the table, while occasionally getting up to run about. She liked the votes, though, and always raised her hand with her own answer. It was usually the same answer as her mother, so just an affirmation of the final decision, anyway. The Lady was absolutely certain the child had no idea what anyone was talking about, but probably thought she was doing a good job at being part of things. She was unbothered by the argument going on in front of her.

"So, we can send larger guards with the caravans, it's not a big deal."

"Oh sure, export will be fine, but what about the ones heading  _ here?  _ You think any weak little Hallownest bug will be able to take on mantis aggressors? ...Uh," the Devout speaking looked at the Lady, now. "No offense, ma'am."

She blinked. "Oh, none taken. But if I might add, we  _ do _ have trained guards all over the city, as well."

"They have  _ guards as well _ ." The first one repeated in a flat "I told you so" tone. The other was undaunted.

"Even so, this is a  _ nationwide _ effort. We can't afford to outfit every single trading van with soldiers, especially if we can just avoid any foreseeable danger in the first place."

"He makes a good point," Herrah supplied. 

"Hah! Greenpath, then. I praise her majesty for her wisdom."

"Don't be a toady, Colonel." Herrah spoke without even looking up. She was just helping Hornet with her weaving work, now.

The other Devout laughed, and that was that. On to the next thing. 

* * *

At some point in the conversation, Hornet had gotten up and walked out, declaring it snack time. And so snack time was henceforth decreed. 

Plenty of good work had gotten done around that time, anyway. Herrah's court worked fast. The Lady often forgot how quickly mortals did things, and so often monumental things. The proud spires in the city were constructed in a matter of months, maybe a few short years, but they seemed so ageless in their immobility. What tireless things bugs were. 

Herrah prepared tea from a stock that the Lady herself had recently gifted her, along with some elegant little sugar-spun honey treats, likely also a gift from the Hive queen. Despite her reputation and title as Beast, Herrah really was rather skilled at making friends in high places. Even the Nightmare King seemed to hold some affection for her, if the Lady's sources were to be believed.

Hornet had all but inhaled her own food and then asked to go out and play with her friends. Herrah sent her off after making her promise not to stray too far from the den. She did, and then darted off like a loosed arrow after a quick and clumsy curtsy to the Lady. 

"She really is unfairly cute. And growing like a weed," the Lady remarked. One nice thing about being friends with a relatively new mother is that if she was ever lost for a conversation segue, she could always bring up the child. Herrah would brighten up without fail, and would often then launch into a story about whatever new thing the little Pale Gift had learned, or shown her, or what accidental chaos she'd recently wrought. 

This time was no exception. "She is, isn't she? It'll be nice when she's able to actually learn something when sitting in on court. I'm trying not to set a precedent that these meetings are some tedious chore. They'll be important for her, soon."

"That oughtn't be too hard. Compared to my own home, the procedures here move like a conversation at a tavern," the Lady mused. Earlier in their acquaintance, she might have worried this would be taken as an insult. It was refreshing how they could now speak candidly.

"You should see how it gets when there's  _ not _ a small child in the room. I'm not sure how much they'd hold back on your account alone."

The Lady actually had no idea how to feel about that. "The rules certainly are different, here."

Herrah tisked. "There are just  _ fewer _ rules in general, I think. They mostly just amount to 'don't be an ass, unless it's helpful'."

"Or funny."

"Well, okay, yes."

"Surely there must be some code of etiquette in the presence of the Queen of Deepnest?" The Lady pressed. Perhaps it was the treatment of her godhood that made this all sound so strange, but surely the title of Queen must hold immense gravity for everyone else as well?

"Hm... It  _ would _ be customary to bow, like in your court, but these days it's more accepted to just salute. You saw how everyone did on the way in."

"Ah. Like this?" The Lady copied the motion, best as she remembered. That apparently amused Herrah greatly. 

"Something like that. I suppose it does assume a higher minimum amount of arms." The Lady thought about the idea that her Wyrm might be able to do it more comfortably, and held back a snort.

"What?"

"I was only thinking that my Wyrm--"

"Oh, gods,  _ no. _ It's weird enough seeing  _ you _ do it." She laughed.

"Understandable. Hornet running up to me and demonstrating how a governess taught her to curtsy was an adorable surprise, but I could not imagine  _ you _ ever doing that."

"No?" She challenged, all mirth, before standing.

"Herrah,  _ please _ \--" the Lady couldn't keep the appalled laughter out of her voice. Herrah did an approximation of a low ballroom curtsy, every arm on the frills of an imaginary gown.

" _ My Lad _ \-- _ Fuck!!" _

She bashed her knee on the table on the way back up. More curses followed. The Lady sat there shaking slightly, a hand over her mouth, all in a desperate bid to stay composed. Herrah sat back down and nursed her joint.

"This right here?  _ This _ is what's wrong with  _ obligatory politesse! _ Shit."

The White Lady finally lost it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont know where this one came from i just love writing these two


	4. Catherine de'Medici's White Gloves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bullying can give people some bad ideas. Also, there's an attempted murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is..... Long and Dramatic. even for ME  
> at least its got a plot tho
> 
> and just as a warning theres poison in this one

At the White Lady's behest, the royal family would sometimes take meals together. They had to be planned beforehand, to accommodate everyone's schedules. The children's lessons and errands would vary, and the Pale King usually had some project or another when he wasn't occupied with official business, with the Lady often in the same boat herself. Family suppers would happen more frequently on the weeks they had Hornet at the palace, for obvious reasons. Though, the oft-serious teenager now provided them all with much less chatter than she once had, when she'd been so much smaller and more energetic. These days, she was more prone to the same sort of quiet observation that her father was, and she much preferred her privacy, and got rather snippy if she felt she wasn't getting it. The White Lady could respect that. And everyone else had no choice _but_ to respect that, or else meet the business end of the girl's needle. On the occasion that Herrah could join them, she was more willing to rib her daughter about her moods than anyone else. But she knew when to back off, so the two never clashed in earnest. Not as far as the Lady or her husband knew, at least. 

The retainers set out the food, and the tea had long been out by the time the children got to the table. They were often late. Hollow less so than Hornet, but they were still somewhat prone to lose track of time, usually either because they were off in their own head or absorbed in some hobby. 

The children appeared to be in the middle of some spat, Hollow nearly tripping Hornet in a deliberate move to shove past her, and Hornet retaliating by kicking their chair before they sat so they'd stumble. She paid no mind to the glare she got in return. 

"Pray tell me, what is _this_ all about?" The queen gestured vaguely at the both of them, keeping her tone patient.

"Nothing," was Hornet's only deadpan response, as she scooted herself nearer to the table.

"Watch your tone," The King supplied, predictably. "And don't pick at your joints like that."

One could _hear_ the eyeroll that got. Perhaps her recent irritability was partially due to an upcoming shed. The leadup to one was supposedly very uncomfortable, from what the Lady had been told. She kept this theory to herself, so as not to sound belittling. 

The meal went on in relative silence for a bit. The Lady decided to bring up some business she'd had with a few recent travelers, who'd fancied themselves missionaries. The presence of _actual_ gods ruling Hallownest had been enough to scare them off when they'd started getting preachy. The White Lady was, perhaps, a tad smug about this. The King took as much amusement in the scenario as she had, though he tried not to look it. 

The children were by far more focused on their meals than her story. Hornet prodded her sibling, and told them to pass her a tea cup. She wasn't particularly polite about it. Hollow huffed, and slid it closer to her without looking, only taking the barest care not to spill its contents. She chugged it without thanking them. 

Honestly. Even given Hollow’s occasional day-long fits of “ennui”, the both of them could still be so _dramatic_ . The Lady idly mused on how her Wyrm might at least appreciate the ensuing quiet whenever the children disagreed. They were certainly less likely to cause any sort of chaos while _sulking_. She still preferred it when they got along, even though they could be a handful when in cahoots. And they usually did. Childish quarreling aside, they were close, so this would pass. At any rate, the Lady hoped either of them would come to her or any of their other parents with any deeper problems.

Hornet took a bite, and began to cough. Hollow startled, then huffed again, seeming annoyed at the disturbance.

The Lady could not resist a bit of exasperated teasing. "Hornet. Are we not past the phase where you need to be reminded to chew your food thoroughly?"

"Ugh," was her eloquent counterpoint. Hollow's shoulders shook for half a second with silent laughter. She took another drink, but the coughing fit continued. The king looked down at his own food.

"I suppose it _is_ somewhat dry," He remarked, thoughtful.

Hornet's hand whipped out to clutch the tablecloth. The coughing intensified. Hollow was looking at her with some concern, now, leaning over to examine her. Checking if she was choking, it seemed. The king and queen looked on awkwardly. 

Then she spat up hemolymph. Then she started wheezing. Hollow knocked their chair over in their haste to stand and get their hands on her shoulders, frantic.

"Hornet--?" The Lady hardly got the word out before the king was over there too. They were on the other side of the table, and she hardly saw him move. He shouted at the nearest retainers to find a medic, or some charcoal. They all scrambled.

"Who prepared the meal? _Which one of them brought it out?_ " His voice seemed to condense rather than rise, as the room was vacated save for their family of four. His daughter convulsed in Hollow's arms, choking out something that sounded like an aborted call for her mother as the retainers brought in every nearby bug with any medical experience. 

The White Lady was still rooted to her spot, too in shock to move for another few moments. She hadn't ordered tea to be set out today.

* * *

When questioned, none of the retainers or servants could tell the king who had set the table that day. The cooks had practically prostrated themselves when he nearly _blinded_ them. That hadn't been intentional, but it almost happened again when none of them could tell him who brewed the tea. He knew there was a schedule to these things, and demanded to see it. All he had was the word of mouth from the staff coordinator, who insisted she knew who was meant to be on duty from memory alone. She pinpointed the ones who set the food out, but none of them knew anything about the tea, or about who specifically might have had access to the kitchens that day. There were so many castle staff that no one ever paid attention to who went in or out anywhere, and new faces were difficult to remember.

The King knew the coordinator was not complicit in any murder plot. She'd been just as devout as any retainer who worshipped him as infallible. He fired her anyway, and resolved to promote someone competent to her station, who would be obliged to keep records. He considered dismissing this person a kindness. Some old instinct, long buried with loose earth and mandibles like tower spires, was now clawing its way to the forefront of his belly, and bidding him to flense her from her exoskeleton using rows of teeth he no longer possessed. The king refrained from any flensing of the innocent. 

But _someone's_ head would roll for this, if he didn't swallow it whole first.

At least the medical response had been quick. But even then, Hornet would have not survived if not for her status as a demigod. The medics had all been too scared to tell him that, but he had _seen_ the confusion on their faces when Hornet continued to breathe despite how much poison had apparently been in her system. The whole family had ingested it, but of the four of them, Hornet had been the only one with anything resembling a real mortal bug's digestive system. It would be common knowledge that the king and queen could not die this way, and therefore neither could Hollow, being the full child of them both. And being of void beyond that, though that was not public knowledge.

This had been a targeted attack, towards either the Princess of Deepnest, or towards the upstart half-spider girl who was quickly coming into a considerable amount of social power among Hallownest's court. 

Or had she been targeted simply because she was _his_ daughter? Would her enemy then come for Hollow, next, with some different method?

(The Pale King never once regretted shedding his old form. It'd been clumsy, horrifying to witness, and indiscriminately destructive. It lived in the damp, and spent its days drilling through rock and soil and _shit_. It had been foul. 

It had enough teeth to protect his family from anything in the world. It was large enough to shield them, and long enough to even form a nest with the curl of its body; a fortress leagues better than any priceless castle, for his ability to know everything in and around it. 

Those thoughts were completely inane. But they had _been_ thoughts he'd had, while he watched her choke on her own blood. That he'd take a life of shit and aimless burrowing in a _heartbeat_ over the feeling of watching the world end on the polished marble floor of his dining room.)

His hand did not shake when he drafted a message to Herrah, and then dispatched his fastest courier. He was King, and he had a duty to take action. He would not be paralyzed by this. There was too much to do. He was a _king_ , and _not_ a maw of serrated teeth. 

* * *

Hornet had been left bedridden, alive but not yet awoken in a few hours time. Few would have the gall to try and poison a spider, when their own venom was among the deadliest substances yet discovered. But it had worked, and it had obviously been deliberate. Herrah could care less whether or not it had been an attempt to cause an international incident, because she was about to cause one right the fuck now.

Someone had _poisoned_ her baby girl, while she'd been far away from her mother and home. 

Herrah practically broke the doors in after taking the first stag to the palace. She rounded on the parlor, which was still damnably pristine and reeking of herbal teas. The royal family waited on her in attendance. King and queen sat together, like always, and their own kid stood silently back, ( _uninjured and healthy,_ ) like they were playing guard.

The deific cowards would not speak first, and so it fell to Herrah.

"Have you nothing to say for yourselves?" She asked lowly, forgoing any greeting. "Where. Is. _My_ daughter?" She punctuated with a claw pointing to her own heart.

"She rests in her room. She will live, it will be alr--" 

"Save your _placations_ , Wyrm. You forfeit any right to share your opinion on the situation by letting something so _unthinkable_ happen. Though I _would_ like to know how in the hell you in all your _pointless paranoia_ managed to let a meal you did not oversee get to your table, without even so much as a royal _taster?_ " 

"That had never been necessary. We are not _mortal--"_

"But the children _are._ Or have you once again forgotten how to think of anyone but _yourself_?"

"Herrah, please, _he_ was not the one who perpetrated--"

"Oh, I'd almost expect this sort of oversight from _him_ , but _you,_ Root? You and the way you manipulate your court like the mortals that populate it are nothing but _toys--"_

" _Stop this._ My Lady has no blame in what happened, she was j--"

"Oh, _there_ it is! There you two go again, defending each other, like _always,_ because you're both too nerveless to defend _yourselves_ . Do you know _why_ I was initially alright with the idea of letting you two have a hand in my daughter’s upbringing, though I _know_ I had every right to keep her away from you, and from this sterile cavern you call a home?" The two watched her, and she continued after a second when they didn't or couldn't answer her.

"It was _that_ . Despite the godhood, the antiquity, and the absolutely _hideous_ shit you did at the abyss-- which was _supposed_ to result in _my own murder--_ you two kept _trying_ for each other. Even when you didn't know how, even when you had the option of resenting each other for leaving in the ways you did, and even when one of you would screw up again, you always loved each other enough to keep wanting to improve your lives side by side, and see each other happy and _better,_ without letting yourselves fall into destructive codependence.

And believe me, after her first week here, I still thought about calling it off. But she already loved her sibling, and she is daughter to this kingdom as well as mine, and I thought, 'Okay, maybe they deserve a chance. Maybe Hollow's naming proves that, or maybe your oath to finally be parents does, but if anything, I think it'd be _nice_ if Hornet could grow up near a family that’s clearly determined to care for each other. She deserves some extra support, and not all kids get to have that.' 

But it _seems_ I must have been _wrong_." Herrah finished with a hiss, using it to mask the beginnings of a tremble in her voice.

"...Herrah--"

"I now find myself questioning what sort of family is taking care of her while I'm not here. This should not have _happened,_ she should never have to be _afraid_ in her _own home_ , she should be able to trust you to _protect_ her! If you _love someone,_ you _protect them,_ especially if they’re only a _child!_ I shouldn't have to even _say--"_

Her voice had risen to just below a shout, but what really froze everyone was a harsh ripping noise heard from Hollow's direction, before they abruptly strode out of the room. It appeared they'd been clutching at a curtain, and had now torn a hole through it. 

The three parents stood silent. The Pale King spoke first, in an unreadable tone.

"... The siblings had been fighting, before this. It was some childish spat, as far as I'm aware, but it ended with the two upset with each other. It doesn't happen often, and they always reconcile within a few hours. That time had not yet passed before the sabotage."

That information effectively extinguished Herrah's rage, at least somewhat.

"... I see." 

They must feel awful. Hollow already appeared to hold some predilection for blaming their family's misfortunes on themself. Herrah wouldn't be surprised if the progress they'd all been making towards breaking them out of that habit would suffer some setback after this.

"We are sorry, Herrah, truly. I promise your anger goes fully understood. You are right, she is family, and someone hurt her. But it was not either of us, and _we_ also had to suffer through witnessing the attempt on her life in action." The Root finally spoke up, though she was not looking Herrah in the eye. She looked down, somewhere, with a hand on her husband's shoulder. He placed one of his own over it, rubbing in small circles with a thumb. Herrah couldn't know if it was the sentiment of attempted comfort, or the simple sensation of movement that grounded her enough to look at him, and then back up again. The king spoke next, eyes boring into Herrah, and hand never leaving the Root's.

"The safety of our daughter has always been a goal you and I shared, even before we knew she would be spared the loss of her mother. Remember how I had already sworn this to you. For this failure, we now share another goal, make no mistake of that. There is clearly some danger to her out there, but it is _not_ me, nor my lady wife."

Herrah took a breath. Nodded.

"We need to find our real enemy."

* * *

Hollow was found sitting in Hornet's room, where she now slept off the effects of that ill-fated assassination attempt. They did not look up at the sound of footsteps, but they did look up at the quiet greeting. They stared at the Pale King briefly, but with a tilt of their head that suggested they weren't expecting _him_ to be the one to seek them out.

"... Were you perhaps expecting your mother?"

They only looked back down again. He supposed that was fair, as his Lady was generally more adept at things like comfort, and empathy, and other complexities of that nature beyond the scope of the quantifiable and immediately knowable. 

The Lady, though, was currently taking charge at deploying her network of her own most faithful; friends, retainers, and agents alike, to gather any relevant information about recent visitors to the palace, additions to its staff, and whoever else she could think of who might have some motive. Using her in-depth knowledge of court intrigue was how she felt she'd be most useful right now, as both a Queen spurned, and a mother with a vengeance. 

And also, the king knew emotions weren't things entirely devoid of logic. It was obvious their child needed support. It had also long since become obvious that Hollow rarely found comfort in open displays of pity, and the king never gave those. And so the parents agreed as well that the Pale King would be most useful right now as only a father. The White Lady and Herrah would be undaunted in their search, and would not need his help. He could be a King again later. 

He'd had a bit of practice in the years since learning he'd _get_ to be a father. It still didn't feel natural. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to. But the king understood that his own anxieties didn't matter nearly as much as his actions, no matter what title he wore in a day. So he stood by Hollow, at their sister's bedside.

"You regret arguing with your sibling. This is reasonable, given how you'd suddenly been forced to wonder for a time if that interaction would be your last," he stated.

Hollow did not move. If they ever deigned to respond to any assertion he made toward them, they generally only made the effort if it was in the negative. For “yes” had always been a given, and they had had to _learn_ to say “no”.

"It may be a regret you carry with you for some time, but one can hope that it will be assuaged once she wakes, and cares more about finding out who made the attempt on her life than about whatever insignificant dispute she got in with her sibling this morning."

Hollow's shoulders heaved with a sharp breath. They moved no further, but there was a tension to them that hadn't been there, their back taut like steel wire even in a hunch. 

"... Perhaps I should not assume it had truly been insignificant, to the two of you." The king spoke, tone carefully not reflecting the sudden dashing of his confidence.

Hollow remained seated, and he remained standing, and there was quiet for a bit. The king had made the decision to stay, and so he would, even if the next steps beyond that were not clear. If Hollow wanted to explain anything, they'd have to be the one to choose and initiate that. He could not ask them to, for even all these years later, he still did not know if they'd ever disobey anything he asked, no matter what they thought of it.

He looked at Hornet. Every likelihood pointed to her waking up and being perfectly fine. He could not say when she'd wake exactly, but knew she'd probably be furious when she did. Though he hardly needed to consult the future for that particular knowledge. Strangely, he found himself consulting as many as he could. He knew she would live, but there were other questions. She would molt soon; would this situation make her too unhealthy to do it safely? The normal complications that sometimes came with an improper shed could _already_ be horrific. Would she internalize this experience as something she should be afraid of, and never again join her family for any meals? Would she form a hatred for the people of Hallownest for someone's betrayal?

Would she blame him? His wife? Herself? 

These questions served no one. All the _great king_ did was stand there, impotently stewing about the possibility of the worst happening, with no proof that it would. This was, at least, a familiar circumstance for him to find himself in.

Logic dictated that the only thing he could do was wait. Whether he worried or not was of no consequence, so long as he acted decisively and appropriately in the face of whatever was to come. 

And yet. 

He looked at her, and found he sometimes forgot how small she still was. Certainly far bigger than she had been, and tried for all the world to act like the leader she would be, but she was not full grown. She was not any of his fully realized predictions.

She was not the cold warrior queen he'd once prophesized as his foe, who would declare war on Hallownest for the death of her mother, knowing she had been sacrificed for his own kingdom's eternity. She would not die leading her army on the steps of the White Palace, after cutting down all of his Five with her own needle, spitting at his feet.

She was not the cunning, nail-wielding outlaw who chose to abandon every home she'd known for a life out in the wastes, taking whatever she wanted from a world that took so much from her so early. She would not form a dangerous gang with an equally skilled duo of marauders she would then take as her lovers, and spend the rest of her life together with them, raiding and plundering towns and caravans for the thrill of it until they were all finally captured and executed somewhere inconsequential.

And she was not the lonely, nimble protector of a frozen tomb-- all that was left of Hallownest after a failed Pure Vessel initiative-- killing anyone who'd seek to ransack her home or threaten her sleeping mother. She would not be an ancient and hardened thing, unable to ever age out of a premature carapace, struggling and surviving for the rest of eternity, all by herself.

She was his daughter. Only a teenager, far closer to a hatchling than whatever she would be in her prime. At least, that's how it seemed. The last time he held her could have been yesterday. He'd have to think about it for a moment if anyone told him it was. 

He eyed Hollow, only for a second. "Do not take what Herrah said as an acknowledgement of any personal failure on your end. She spoke out of fear. Fear and anger go hand in hand more often than you might expect. One gives power to the other, and makes it seem righteous in the moment. I speak from personal experience."

Hollow looked at him in turn, also only for a second. 

"Do not let your own fear for her manifest as anger at yourself. That is of no use to either of you. You were not the one who tried to kill her."

The king then worried that he might be speaking too bluntly. But that was what had happened, and Hollow had been there for it.

Before they could respond in any way, if they would have, Hornet stirred. The king froze, shocked, and Hollow jolted and stood from their seat, then left the room as quickly and quietly as they could.

(The king was nearly frustrated, but he of all people certainly had no right to begrudge them the instinct to flee in the face of guilt or fear. He and his Lady still found themselves working on that particular flaw. Perhaps it'd been inadvertently passed down to them.)

His daughter woke, but only opened her eyes for a split second before shutting them again and hiding under the blanket. The king blinked in surprise. The way the blanket moved suggested she was curling her arms around her abdomen. 

"... Can you hear me?" He began. He was not good at gentle, so he went for quiet.

"Too bright," she grumbled out, hoarse. 

Right. He controlled his light down as dim as he could get it.

"... Why does everything _hurt?_ " She asked barely a second later. 

"You were poisoned." 

He winced internally the moment he spoke. Too blunt, again. Like he was speaking to a soldier injured in battle rather than his own _sick child_ . Maybe he _should_ just call her mother. 

"What…?"

Her voice was more of a rasp. Unnerved by the sound, the king briefly left the room to find a retainer and ordered them to fetch some water. She was trying to sit up when he returned, and he found himself hurrying back. 

"You were not expected to wake up so soon. Your body has not yet recovered. Lie back down."

She was shivering, but it didn't do much to soften her glare. He did not hold his own back in turn. There was once a time where that would have affected her, but that time appeared to have already passed at some point. 

She did not relent, but she did pitch forward suddenly, clutching her stomach and making a pained noise. The king's hand twitched forward, but even _here_ , his ingrained proclivities aborted the movement. No matter how useless they were at that moment. 

And Hornet had definitely seen that. She now watched him from the corner of her eye. Something about her appraisal stung. The wariness of it, maybe.

"... Where is m--" was all she was able to grit out before she cried out, wracked with a new wave of pain.

That was apparently enough to snap him out of worthless decorum, because he was already holding her before he realized he'd moved. 

He was not shoved away for it, so it can't have been so bad of an offense. She trembled violently, and he held her to his chest then, like his own solidity might be able to steady her. He couldn’t remember holding her like this since she'd been newly hatched. The gap of time between then and now suddenly seemed far wider than it had a minute ago. 

"It _hurts_ ," she grit out.

"I know. I know. It will stop."

She was about to say something else, but in this version of events, she decided against it. It would have been "Father".

"... You’re alright," he tried. 

Staying would have to be enough, so he did, one hand rubbing circles on her back while another took hold of her own hand. She clutched it, her grip shaky. He didn't pull away until the shivering stopped, and even when it did, he still didn't. And perhaps she was simply too tired to have the wherewithal to make him, even as she let go of his hand.

But, she was evidently never too tired to sass him. "... So _poisoning_ is what it takes for you to show any physical affection to your children, then."

"Would you have _let_ me, had I tried in recent memory?"

"But you _never_ tried."

He sighed. But he still didn't let go, and she still didn't shove him. 

"... I did. Do you remember the way you'd follow me to the workshop, and insist upon making everything I worked on a team project?"

"... Yes. Even then, I had to _climb_ your robe to sit in your lap, and you'd just stop moving. I remember _exactly_ how much I bothered you." Her voice was low, but had little real bite to it. They were both speaking a bit more quietly than was actually necessary.

"... That is not what happened. I simply had no idea what to _do_ . You were still so new. In all my millennia, I had never had to care for a _child_ before. I was half convinced I would somehow harm you if I so much as twitched wrong. You were so small."

"... Right. Of _course_ you wouldn't know. _Hollow_ did not _get_ to be a child." The bite returned to her voice. He felt her shoulders stiffen. She felt his arms go tense.

"No," he relented. "They did not."

"... I'm fine now. You can let go."

"You are not 'fine'. You still need rest." He complied and released her, stepping back a good pace. He interrupted whatever she was about to say next as she opened her mouth. To satisfy a point of curiosity, and just in case she meant to argue with him.

"What were you and your sibling fighting about?"

"... Fighting--?" She seemed to remember something, and tried right then to hop out of bed. The act appeared to cause some nausea, or pain. The king found himself hovering over her, almost fretting.

 _"Be careful."_ The words came out just shy of harsh. She did lean back against the headboard again with a hiss. 

" _What_ happened?" He asked again, once she seemed to overcome the wave.

"... It was stupid. We were-- Hollow followed some… 'friends' and me to the waterways."

"The… why?" He had a thought. "... _When."_

Hornet did not look at him. 

_"Hornet."_

"... In the morning. When I was supposed to be at my science lesson."

The idea of scolding her _now_ came off as rather silly. The king imagined that nearly _dying_ was more than enough punishment. He only sighed again.

"Go on."

"I'd gone with some classmates. We were only exploring. Hollow saw me sneaking out, and followed me. I hadn't known they were there until--" she stopped, and appeared to have to think _far too hard_ about how to recount the morning's events. 

"Until _what_."

"Nothing happened! We were all just _talking._ Then Hollow showed themself, and dragged me back here. Nothing happened."

"Talking."

"That was all."

"About what, then?"

"Does it matter? Lessons, classmates, parents. Nothing important."

"Who were you with?"

"Would you _get off my back?_ I was _poisoned._ If I ever deserved any slack, it would be _now_ ," she sniped. 

He took a silent breath, and focused on keeping his light under control with some effort.

"... You may be right about that. But I still have questions for you _later_ that I want answered. Not out of any wish to pry, but because any information that might lead to the discovery of your attacker is crucial."

"... We still don't know who did it, then."

"You were asleep for mere hours. The healers expected days."

"... How many hours?" 

"Almost four, since dinner. It nears midnight."

If there was any comfort to be found in this situation, it was the reminder that, while mortal, a demigod was made of much sterner stuff than the rest. Another comfort was the fact that Hornet looked _annoyed_ rather than afraid.

"... Does my mother already know about this?"

"She is with your stepmother, leading the search. Presumably dispatching spiders as agents."

"Then why are _you_ here? You're hardly getting any sort of work done at my _bedside._ You aren't even tinkering with anything."

As much as he wanted to snipe back about how worrying for her shouldn't demand justification, the Pale King made it a point never to lie to his children. (Save for one instance in her childhood, about the fate of her favorite shellwood toy when he was _already_ in trouble with two more high-standing ladies in his life. He hadn't _lied_ about who was to blame for it getting broken, per say, but he had omitted some details.)

"I thought to offer comfort to your sibling. They left the room as soon as you began to stir."

"Hollow was here?"

He nodded. Her expression told him nothing about her feelings on this information.

She scrubbed at her face with a hand, and sighed. Less harsh than normal. Clearly just tired.

"... I knew they wouldn’t exactly be _happy_ with me for sneaking off, but they acted almost like they were _embarrassed_ of my behavior with the others. They're almost as stiff and proper as _you_ , sometimes, and I made my feelings quite clear to them about their right to an opinion on _me_ , and what I do with my own time and company," Hornet explained. The king got the sense that he still wasn't getting the full story, but pressing her never got him anywhere. At his silence and attention, she continued. 

"I suppose what either of us said and did wasn't nearly as bad as _attempted murder_ ," she conceded, still looking openly unhappy. But she was right, and that made logical sense. They both knew that. He thought for a second, wondering what her mother might say here.

"... But the both of you still felt _hurt_ , regardless." Was what he decided on, carefully. Hornet frowned, looking embarrassed. The king cleared his throat, quickly moving on.

"Your sibling was worried about you. I believe they harbor some guilt about your quarrel happening right before _this_ did."

" _They_ didn't poison me."

"That is what I told them."

She looked annoyed with him again. The normalcy was a greater comfort than he'd let her know.

"I'm tired."

"Would you like me to leave?" 

"Yes."

He nodded, and walked out without another word, though he'd thought about another three. The opportunity passed before he could gather the nerve, and he shut the door behind him.

On his way down the hallway, he saw the retainer who'd been ordered to fetch water heading back to Hornet's room. A surge of likely misplaced panic bade the king to suddenly intercept them, and he took the glass from the tray before they could enter the room. The retainer bowed, and once they headed off in the other direction, the king dumped the contents of the glass into a nearby plant.

He decided he'd get the water himself. 

After a brief and somewhat awkward visit to the kitchen, a glass of clean water was quickly and personally secured. He went back to Hornet's room, knocking softly before entering. She was already asleep again, it seemed. He kept quiet, glowed only faintly, and placed the water on her nightstand. 

She didn't move much when she slept, but she was alright. She was okay. She would live, and the worst was over. She was okay. 

Hesitant, he leaned over to place a kiss to her forehead. He pulled her blanket up a little further and more securely over her shoulders, and then left, just as near silent as he'd entered.

* * *

After a minute or two passed, Hornet deemed it safe to move. She kicked the covers off and sat up, a little woozy. That would be an annoyance. Another was that she'd apparently been redressed in a nightgown. Her first reaction was indignation, before she remembered how much of her own blood she'd spat onto her cloak. 

Someone had better be washing that. There would be hell to pay if anyone decided to throw it out instead. 

But that wasn't so important right then. Standing up highlighted her nausea, a headache, and a cold soreness present along all of her joints and muscles. It was miserable. But so was the prospect of staying vulnerable in bed for however long some palace healer, who likely knew nothing of how to tend to a spider, much less a _half-god_ , would deem she should. 

She took a step. Thought her head might split. Frowned.

There was a cup of water on her nightstand that hadn't been there. She didn't even hear a clink of glass on metal that would have indicated its placement. Her father really could be so eerily quiet. It was fortunate that he always knocked.

She downed the drink in one go. It helped some. 

With that, she changed into something more resembling her hunting cloak-- it was embroidered with lacework patterns of the palace emblem, and regrettably white-- and picked up her needle, sheathing it behind her. She opened one of the windows, and assessed the familiar jumps between scaffolding and balcony rooftops she'd have to make before hitting the ground. 

Aching and nauseous or not, a misstep and subsequent fall wouldn't _kill_ her. She was trained, she knew how to land lightly, and of course could fall back on deploying her needle on silk.

But still, a slip-up would _hurt._ And her stomach was already roiling, nevermind the _thought_ of any acrobatics. 

Irritated but practical, she turned away from the window, and went for the door instead. The palace was vast, and she'd snuck out through the inside without being seen before, and with ease. 

Hornet had already made plans for tonight, and it was fantastic luck that she'd woken up before midnight. Flaking would be a sign of weakness, and she would _not_ give her spoiled little upper-crust classmates a _real_ excuse to look down on her.

* * *

The White Lady was making less progress than she'd like in finding any likely culprit. The families of the land were more than loyal enough to the king and queen, and people were only marginally less open about any distaste they held for Deepnest than they would have been a few years ago. It should have been an easy search. 

But there didn't seem to be anyone with any history of trying to move against Deepnest, even if people were rude about it as a topic. But it wasn't unheard of for a duke with a decent amount of land to try and sabotage foreign affairs for some perceived gain. The two realms had been official allies for years, but that didn't mean everyone was happy about it. Killing Deepnest's princess would more than likely result in war, and so the queens of both lands had set out to find who among Hallownest's caste thought they might benefit from a war, either politically or morally. Of course, the only thing the perpetrators would _actually_ gain from this once they were found was a trial for high treason. 

Herrah and the White Lady had even talked about searching Deepnest, but Herrah deemed it a waste of resources. The attack had happened here, and some tests ordered on the contents of the tea had confirmed the poison was not spider's venom. It came from a flower. One bred and prized for its beauty, and only poisonous when carefully distilled. The Queen actually grew them in her own gardens. They were so popular among the nobility lately. Popular among people who stood to gain inheritances from their older kin.

She'd have the whole crop eradicated the next time she went back.

"Do you think, perhaps, it could have been less of a political move, and more of a personal one?" Herrah asked her. Her tone betrayed nothing about what she may think of the idea, but the Lady figured her friend must be just as horrified about it as she herself was. 

"... I cannot think of anyone who'd be willing to risk everything, simply because they do not like a particular child."

"There could still be something to gain, even if it isn't meant to be some international statement. Has my daughter slighted anyone?"

The Lady thought for a moment. If she had, that gossip hasn't yet reached her. Come to think of it, there was a good chance it never would. The White Lady was very open about her affection for Deepnest's princess. Nasty opinions about her might have consequences for those who held them, if word of them ever reached the queen. 

"... I do not know. But that may be intentional on the part of my social circle." 

"It's worth looking into, then. I love Hornet more than life itself, but she does not pull her punches. And your people have historically been known to do cruel things for wealth and status in the past." Herrah spoke in that same official tone, with no anger, fear, or anything else present in it. 

And the White Lady could not argue. She was doing her best with her people. But there could be no doubt that there is something inherently wrong with a social structure where poison and sabotage went on between higher beings with some apparent regularity. And that was only as far as she could _guess_. How much violence was really going on underground that the king and queen weren't aware of, so high up and away from it all as they were?

It was so easy to let things get bad. There was some shame to be found in the fact that she would never have been actively aware of these things, had they not finally affected her own family. 

The White Lady met with her spies, and offered them a generous reward for information gathered on any noble family who'd suffered some recent fall from grace, and had contact with either of her children that coincided with that time.

* * *

Hollow had tried everything. Flowers and quills were the main tools of communication at their disposal, and so they wrote like their life depended on it. But none of it was right. None of it assuaged the guilt, and none of it felt sufficient to get what they wanted to say across.

They were used to having the opposite problem. There were so many, many words, and so many flowers in the world with all variations of meanings assigned to them, from simple and straightforward to complex and interpretable. There were clearly far more ideas already written than there were thoughts and feelings Hollow would ever be capable of. No matter how some of those thoughts and feelings could still sometimes overwhelm them.

But what could they possibly say here? Their sister had been so mad at them. _They_ had been mad at _her._ That hardly ever happened in earnest. They could remember being afraid for her, for the impulsive little thing she'd been, and they could sometimes be frustrated with her, headstrong as she'd grown to be. But there was never anger. They did not _like to be angry._ It felt disgraceful, even if they'd been taught that sometimes it was okay, and even sometimes encouraged. People could be angry for good reasons. And they in particular had some perfectly valid reasons to be angry with certain people.

But another thing about anger was that it fed itself. She had been mad at them for hauling her back to the palace, and she had said things in her anger that they now knew she hadn’t truly meant. But in the moment, they’d gotten a similarly displeased reaction out of Hollow. They had only been trying to help. They had only been worried. They did not _like_ the people who were trying to include their little sister in their business, and wanted to ensure she wasn't part of anything untoward.

Hornet had made it very clear that she could decide for _herself_ who and what she involved herself with, and reminded Hollow in no uncertain terms that she actually had more years of life experience than they did, anyway. Who were they to shove their snout into things that they didn't understand, like the normal affairs of _people_?

It'd been a low blow. The look on her face after she spoke showed she knew that, but they had stormed off before anything else could be said. And in the time they both had to simmer, it appeared she hadn't decided to apologize. So they had gone to dinner a couple of hours later still upset with each other. 

And then she'd almost died, still mad at them for something so trivial as how they'd embarrassed her in front of her classmates. Perhaps almost died not knowing that they knew she hadn't meant what she said in anger. 

That didn't make it okay, but it had still been _terrifying._ That anything might happen to her, so she'd perish possibly thinking they no longer cared for her, was unthinkable. They don't think they would have ever forgiven themself. 

They prepared a bouquet, but it felt silly. No matter what flowers represented, they usually tended to look so festive. They tried their best to fix this with their knowledge of decoration and color pallets, while keeping the message to them clear, but the end result was still just a bouquet. Beautiful, elegant, and formal. It didn't feel right for this. Neither did the dozens of scrapped drafts; letters of apology, of well wishes, of forgiveness, of questions.

Maybe they were being a coward. Words would always be second to _actions_. They knew this, but they still ran away. 

They steeled themself, and headed off to their sister's room. Action was necessary. They'd support her, and if she wanted to finally say her piece, the two could work it out from there.

They knocked, and opened the door. 

The room was empty. Their immediate reaction was panic. She was sick, and someone wanted her dead. 

And then they saw the open window, and remembered the plans she'd made with those other teens. Half still worried and half willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, they searched the room for her needle. It was gone, too.

Suddenly, all their misgivings about anger flew right out that window. Hollow was _pissed_. 

They left the palace so quickly one could have argued that their movements trailed void. 

* * *

Hornet met up with some classmates she shared a linguistics tutor with, at the very edge of the kingdom. They'd spoken of a passage through the waterways that led somewhere cold and barren, where ash fell from seemingly nowhere without end. 

It was well beyond the borders of where it was acceptable to explore. The king had made it taboo to go too far this way, and for any ordinary bug, it'd practically be treason. But these were children of very important society members, so they all thought themselves shielded from any punishment too harsh. And they certainly weren't going to _tell_ anyone about their adventures. 

More importantly to Hornet, there were legends of a sleeping leviathan lurking somewhere out here, deep into the untamed caverns of south-easternmost Hallownest. No one had seen it, but if it might one day pose a threat, Hornet thought the information could be valuable. This was her land too. Worst case scenario, it's a misadventure with a few short-sighted teenagers who had the audacity to tell Hornet she had not yet earned her place in this kingdom.

She knew they were wrong. She also knew she didn't truly need to prove anything to anyone.

But maybe she was tired of being the only one that knew that. Everyone was allowed a last straw. These brats she called her peers had been her's.

The trek there alone was grueling. She took a stag as close as she could go, and was relieved by the stag's normal pleasantries and lack of questions for her, beyond what she was doing up so late. That had informed her that her "incident" was not made public knowledge. Either way, walking to her destination from King's Station had been fraught with random tremors, and shots of pain down her back and stomach, and through her head. The poison was definitely not out of her completely, but she would fight through it. If anyone could, it was her. Princess of Deepnest, daughter of Hallownest, and symbol of strength and unity that she was.

But still, she'd been slowed somewhat, and the others had the gall to tease her about it, saying they thought she'd gotten scared and stayed home. She'd responded that they oughtn't talk about being scared before any one of them actually found the leviathan.

She wasn't the only one who came armed. Out of the group of six, two were pages soon to be sent for knight training, and one was near top of her class in archery. Counting Hornet, that made four with any defense capabilities. As a safety precaution, the other two had brought a kitchen knife and a very decorative looking dagger, respectively.

Of the group, Hornet could at least count something of a friend in the archer, with whom she shared conversation lessons in their youth. She was a young beetle by the name of Lieke, and heiress to a popular jewelry-making business. They had recently bonded over a shared distaste for their own fathers. While Hornet had not been specific about her problems with the Pale King beyond her normal annoyance with his stuffy attitude, the heiress had been happy to talk about her own father's tendency to cut corners in his manufacturing, and how many of the gems he advertised were just colored resin. 

When shown some of his work, Hornet had noticed that his handiwork actually frequented the White Lady's own collection. She watched with some amusement one day, as the Lady's husband allowed her to adorn him with some of her favorite pieces for a visit to her gardens. Hornet had waited until after he was already heading to the stag station to inform her stepmother that the brooch and pendant he now wore were completely fake. The White Lady had been mildly scandalized, and her sudden retirement of that brand and abrupt cut of contact with the old jeweler had hurt his business' reputation considerably. He tried many times to re-establish the Queen as a client, and the White Lady had been ultimately forced to formally request that he cease and desist, embarrassing him further once word got out about that. His daughter had found it funny. Lieke had little interest in one day running the business, and Hornet had told her that she'd make a far better marksman anyways. 

The two made light conversation during the walk further east, before the archer was swept up in being loud and puffing up with the other two wanna-be warriors about who'd be the one to slay the monster, and return home a famed hero of Hallownest. If it existed, of course. The ash that fell from the air became the main topic of speculation for the group, and they wondered if perhaps the mythic thing slumbered in a great burning forest, or was if it was just constantly on fire. No one really took any of these assertions seriously, and it was quite clear that the reality of this trip was an excuse for six bored souls to sneak away in the dead of night to see somewhere taboo, for later bragging rights. After all, they were young, educated noblemen, and most of them were strong. All of them present already had many rights and special privileges to the kingdom they lived in, so didn't they deserve to also know parts of it that were generally inaccessible to the rest of common society?

Hornet certainly believed _she_ did, if any of them did. She'd probably already seen more of the world than any of these foolhardy teenagers combined, and very early in her life. She'd looked over the abyss and not wavered. She'd seen the crown of Hallownest, and the stars above that many others would only ever see in picture books in their lifetimes. She lived in "dark, mysterious Deepnest" and knew it well, for it would one day be her's. She had every right to be _here_ , too.

No matter how any of her peers might say she didn't really. Tonight would show many of them how wrong they were. Especially if there really _was_ some sort of danger out here, and she'd end up being the one to keep her lesser-trained classmates from getting themselves killed by it.

Whatever the danger might be, no one really expected any mythological monster. So when the silhouette of something with a mouth full of horrible teeth large enough to double as palace spires became clear in the distance, all chatter ceased at once, and the children stopped cold in their tracks.

"... What even _is_ that?" Kitchen-knife girl asked. One of the pages leaned forward slightly as if to get a better look, but did not step forward.

"... I think it's a building, actually." They said, not sounding too convinced.

"It has _teeth_ ," the other page pointed out.

"It's dead," Hornet supplied decisively, prompting everyone to look at her.

"How do _you_ know?" The first page-- she thinks their name is either Pip or Penn-- accused.

"Just look. All this ‘ash’ falls from it. Whatever it is, it's decomposing." The rest turned again to stare at it, looking mixtures of awed, horrified, or disgusted. Two of them frantically started brushing the flakes of "ash" off their clothes, squealing.

 _"Disgusting!"_

"Should we get closer?" Lieke spoke up. 

" _Someone_ should. I elect the Deepnest Princess." The other page pointed directly at Hornet, prompting her to smack his hand away. The action earned some dramatic "oooohs" from those behind her. 

" _You_ spoke so boldly of being some brave hero. Why don't _you_ approach it?" She challenged. He all but sputtered.

" _I'm_ going to be a squire in a few _years_! You're the one who already trains so much around bees and spiders."

"That's right, you used to brag so much about them!" Pip/Penn spoke up. "What, is their training really just not any good? _Deepnest_ has no Great Knights like we do."

"She's probably just a scared little spider. Why don't you go back to the dark, and let _us_ take the credit for our discovery? You have no business with it, anyway." 

No one came to her defense, and the one who had the absolute nerve to _mock her_ was the little ant armed with only a decorative wall ornament of a dagger. She could skewer him with a single motion. 

Hornet unsheathed her weapon, prompting him and the others around her to startle back gratifyingly.

"If anyone here has any right to anything of historical note to this kingdom, it's _me,_ " She said lowly, before striding off towards the husk of the leviathan with her needle in hand. She steadfastly ignored the whispers that erupted behind her.

What did get her attention was an "Oh, _shit!"_ cried out in tandem with a "She _ratted_ on us!"

Hornet whipped around to see Hollow, marching toward the group with a hurried and purposeful gait she'd never seen from them before. A lot of their body language now was unfamiliar. They didn't usually hunch their shoulders like that. And were they stomping, a bit?

The group had begun to start offering excuses, but Hollow brushed right past them, toward _her._ Her peers all watched, some with shock, and others with the type of open schadenfreude they'd get when someone was about to get yelled at by their tutor.

Oh, shit.

Hornet flung her needle into one of the husk's teeth, and _flew_ the rest of the way to it. The motion made her insides roil angrily, and she stumbled some on the way down, taking a quick second to steady her dizziness before dashing further in. Something at the end of the tunnel-- this creature had been so long, it now _was_ a tunnel-- glowed with a familiar light that pulled at her soul. She hesitated, keeping distance, and attempted to focus enough to see it clearly. What that revealed to her instead was a complex protective seal written in the very air over the thing. Whatever this was, someone wanted to make sure it would not be broken. 

It did not take a lot of wondering to figure out who that someone might be, for she recognized his handiwork. That realization also brought the less welcome one that explained to her _what exactly_ she was standing in. This had to be a wyrm corpse. She only knew of one person who could have possibly inhabited it. 

She was startled back by Hollow _teleporting_ in front of her, and grabbing her arm. They pulled her forward, tension in their posture loudly informing her how their scolding this morning had been _nothing_ compared to their anger now. The void behind their eyes seemed to steal the breath and bravado right out from her, directed fully on her face like that. 

It was mostly instinct that forced her to unleash a small whipping flurry of silk to escape them. She dashed past them, and the glowing thing was nearly within reach--

And then another light halted her, this one from far behind but intense, washing out the entire tunnel until the refractions off its walls and bones blinded her. Her headache had been manageable, but it now felt like something had blown an exit wound right between her eyes, and it pounded, making her finally collapse. She couldn't process much for nearly a full minute after that, though she heard a voice behind her.

* * *

Hollow turned away from their sister, halted a moment before they'd nearly picked her up around the middle with one hand like a large doll. There was their father, glowing violently, walking in with a quick but steady pace that made Hollow want to shrink back, no matter how much bigger than him they were. He stopped right in front of his children, and looked between them. Something seemed to shock him somewhat, and Hollow looked down at their sister to see her on the ground, clutching her head. They moved quickly and picked her up, and she was quick to hide her face in their shoulder, muttering something about the light. They found themself holding protectively, anger mostly abated at the display of pain. 

Mostly, but not entirely. She'd sort of brought this on herself. 

Either way, their father dimmed himself to something several times less bracing. He looked past them at whatever sealed thing lay at the end of the tunnel, and sighed in what looked to be relief. 

"Come. We are going _home_."

His tone left no room for argument, and the command was well inline with what Hollow had shown up to do, anyway. They followed him, feeling Hornet labor to steady her breathing in their arms. They huffed, equal parts relieved she was safe and _livid_ with her. She was _sick._ What in the world had possessed her to sneak out to simply gallivant around unknown territory with some kids she didn't even particularly _like?_ She was normally so _reasonable_ . They did not _like_ being disappointed with her. 

Hornet pulled back slightly after a few seconds, squinting a bit at her surroundings. She did not look at Hollow when she spoke quietly. 

"... I can walk, now."

She squawked a bit when they simply pushed her back into their shoulder again without breaking stride, their hold firm.

Back in the palace, the Pale King summoned for Herrah to meet him in his Lady's parlor. The two co-parents sat across from their daughter now. Hollow had been allowed to be excused, but they elected to stay, standing off to the side and silently watching the proceedings. They felt they deserved to hear whatever explanation Hornet had for worrying everyone, too.

There was silence for almost a full minute. Herrah sat up with the sort of regal and serious posture Hollow imagined she might at her throne, maybe while overseeing the proceedings of a trial for someone's life. 

"We have all night, Hornet." Deepnest's queen spoke simply. Hornet was sitting in a similar pose, attempting similar dignity. Her hands on her knees and her refusal to look either of her parents in the eye somewhat weakened the effect. 

"... How did you know where I was?" She decided to finally ask.

"I found you missing, and when I looked to the future for guidance, there was a sudden uptick in outcomes where you either returned bearing the mark left that place would have branded you, or did not return at all." The king's voice was practically ice. Hornet bristled.

"... I thought the others might follow me in," she lied.

" _What_ others?" 

Hornet glanced over at Hollow. They made the hand sign for "ran away". In her flight, she hadn't seen how her little group had dispersed the second Hollow looked their leaders in the eye. She cursed under her breath.

 _"Hornet."_ Herrah commanded her attention, and she jolted. "I would never in all of my _life_ have expected this level of short-sighted behavior from _you._ Don't you realize how close you'd come to death this morning? Or is this blasted kingdom turning you into the sort of _spoiled child_ that indulges her every whim with _no regard_ for any consequences?"

"No."

"'No' it isn't, or 'No,' you've conveniently forgotten there'd been an _attempt on your life_ mere hours ago?" 

"I'm _sorry_ ," Hornet gritted out, one of her hands clutching the hem of her cloak.

"Are you?" The king spoke up, tone unchanging. "Because your actions today have suggested to us a momentary lapse in understanding of _what you mean to this kingdom,_ not to mention the one that depends on you to one day rule it. Furthermore, you _must_ understand the terror your _family_ had to experience for you _twice_ in one day. Your actions disrespect us, your lands, all that you are to us, and all that you _stand for_ \--"

"I _know!"_ Hornet shouted back suddenly, standing. "Have I not made it obvious to _anyone_ that I _know_ what I'm meant to be? Have I not already split my life in half between a land who birthed me for convenience and duty, and one that expects me to be a million things at once to prove my loyalty for it, whenever its subjects aren't just shunning me or fearing me at every turn?!" She looked between both her parents in turns, standing tall, the way she did when she had something to impress upon someone about herself. They let her speak, Herrah's mask unreadable and the King's face as inscrutable as ever.

"I train, and I learn, and I _act_ , and I am expected to be a paragon and protector to Deepnest, while Hallownest others me for daring to split my love between both my homes. The Weavers treat me as if I am already Queen, already expected to be _faultless,_ while your bug courtiers seem to have to scan me down to my last detail in order to find something even _acceptable_ about me. For wanting to protect Deepnest, I'm made indistinguishable from my _mother_ in their eyes. For wanting to know Hallownest, I am _literally poisoned._ I know I am exalted, and I know I am _reviled_ , so tell me, then, what I'm meant to do to just be _respected?"_

Hollow watched her parents' expressions turn to shock as she spoke. Herrah was the one to answer, voice softened by confusion.

"What brought this about? Hornet, you don't have to prove anything to us, you know that--"

"Don't I?" She shot back quickly. "Don't you expect so much of me, mother, when I am always to return home with a progress report on my Hive training, or on my lessons in spellcasting?"

"Hallownest does _not_ revile you," the king spoke up, abruptly enough to suggest he only then remembered he could. 

"No, _father_ , you're right. Those who don't fear my heritage or my needle simply don't understand what I'm even _doing_ here. But even they still expect patriotism from me. Is it my fate to continue loving and defending a kingdom I have no claim to, while it goes on uncaring that I exist within it at all? One that evidently would not mourn my disappearance from it, maybe wouldn't even _notice_ it?"

Something about her words seemed to truly disturb him. Hollow had never seen their father recoil like that. Herrah attempted to reign the conversation in, calm and steady.

"... We expect much of you because you are _capable_ of so much, Hornet. You're right, people's expectations of you are going to be contradictory, and sometimes impossible. You mustn't listen to every single one, and you especially shouldn’t heed the opinions of those who don't even like you," she supplied. Hornet's eyes did not soften, but she did not retort, so Herrah continued.

"The Wyrm tells me you'd gone out playing hooky with some classmates this morning. Do they have something to do with this?"

"They're loud," Hornet began simply. "They _talk_ . Some lessons, I am only ever referred to as 'the spider girl', or, when people are feeling _generous,_ 'the Princeling's half-sister'." She looked at Hollow, but only glanced at them for a moment before looking forward again. 

"I heard them speak of an expedition to the edge of the kingdom, in search of some fabled monster. They thought one explained why it’s illegal to go beyond a certain waypoint, and found a way past that point through the waterways. When they saw I knew, they threatened to brand me a foreign loyalist and traitor to everyone if I told on them. I let them know I was no traitor to anyone, and that this land was my home as much as my other one was. They told me to prove it, by coming with them."

"... That's _inane_." Herrah decided. Hornet looked surprised, and then askance.

"They're _going_ to talk. How would complying with their petty little demands prove them wrong about you? All it proves to them is that they can _manipulate_ you with guilt and threats."

Hornet nearly sputtered. "I _wasn't--_ "

"You _were_ . But you're not in trouble for that. You've had your first direct encounter with the truly heinous side of society life, honeycomb. There are people out there who are going to try and control others for their own power, and these kids sound like they're growing into those sorts. But nothing they say can change anything about who you _are_. They don't even know you."

"... So it's never going to stop, then." Hornet said dully.

"I didn't say that. It _will_ get better. If people can adapt to new reigns and alliances, they can adapt to _you_. And they will, because it only takes the basest amount of awareness for a person to understand that it's worth caring about someone who's so intent on being as brave and as kind as you are. In time, you will surround yourself with those who see your value as a person, not as a title with something to offer them. But you must be clever, and again, you may have to give it time."

Hornet nodded, still looking off to the side. Still upset, and probably still not feeling well. Hollow wished she'd at least sit. They noticed their father had something of a faraway look in his eye.

A polite cough startled everyone into directing their attention at the door. The White Lady stood, apparently having caught much of the conversation. Alarmingly silent arrivals were something of a family calling card.

"Forgive me, I meant not to intrude. Darling Hornet. I should like to see you rest some, but before that, might I ask you a few questions about these classmates you spoke of? I would like to know what you may know of their parents, specifically." 

Hornet looked uneasy. "... Why?"

"I admit in part to wanting to sate my own curiosity. But I do have another motive for the information, in light of today's earlier events, and in light of the way these children seemed to speak so ardently of _loyalty_ . I wonder if perhaps their zeal was something learned by forebears who stand to _gain_ something from propagating such an exclusive approach to national pride."

Hornet looked taken aback. Herrah and the Pale King shared a look. The White Lady continued.

"It has been my experience that those types of personalities have been known to do such erroneous things. Especially when they believe themselves above others."

Hornet sat back down.

* * *

Hornet had said all she knew about her classmates with notable lineages, both those present for the situation at Kingdom's edge and those not. Children of noble birth evidently talked more freely about their lives than even their bored parents, for Hornet seemed to have at least a little information on every recent scandal the White Lady had heard about, and some even she hadn't known about. While interesting (only to her, it seemed, both her darling husband and her fellow queen had clearly checked out for much of the conversation once it got more into people's personal dramas), it offered little, until Hornet started talking about things she personally involved herself with. It was very little, in all honesty. She'd called some minor earl's son a coward, and he'd responded by spreading rumors that she was hiding several extra sets of legs, though that ended up being largely harmless. She'd also called some marchioness' clothing tacky and of poor quality, and that had caused some tittering that resulted in the woman buying different styles. Also harmless. (And the White Lady knew that marchioness, and privately thought Hornet was right.)

Then Hornet finally spoke about one other girl who she almost considered a friend, and how the girl's father was some wealthy jeweler of a brand the Lady had found pretty. She'd been disappointed to learn all his most popular pieces were fakes, as he'd been somewhat overcharging for them even when everyone thought they were real gemstones. Pretty or not, that sort of deceit was distasteful. (And his silver necklaces had looked so lovely on her Wyrm, too. Such a shame.)

But remembering him, and remembering Hornet's role in his fall from the good graces of society, and then learning of how Hornet now apparently encouraged the jeweler's daughter to follow her own ambitions in life outside of his family's business…

The Lady was prompted to dispatch some agents to check for correspondence between any palace staff, and the old jeweler's estate. They found a link, then, to a particularly elusive scullery maid who was apparently a _cousin_ of the jeweler's. The maid had broken down quickly at some light questioning, begging not to be tried as an accomplice, offering excuses for her behavior by accusing her cousin of blackmail, and bribery, and all sorts of other threats if she did not go through with his revenge.

That confession, along with more about where the two had gotten the poison, led to a trail ending at an apparently prominent poisoner operating out of the flooded district, who catered to enough nobles to indicate a widespread _web_ of fraud, sabotage, and murders for status or inheritance. The King and Queen ordered him arrested, and would be at work for a long time indicating others like him, and dismantling this particular underground epidemic. The kingdom would be scandalized by news of it for much of the near future.

But more immediately, the verbal accounts with the poisonmaker, records of correspondence and sales between him and the jeweler, and the maid’s confession all were more than enough proof of the jeweler’s guilt to have him and his family banished from Hallownest entirely, on the crime of high treason.

At Hornet's pleas, the king and queen had spared the jeweler's daughter from banishment. Lieke, as she was apparently called, was sent off to live with some trusted family friend. She quickly sold her father's business, as was her right as its de-facto owner. Hornet would probably never see the girl again, but perhaps she would finally get to pursue archery in earnest.

  
The king also saw to hiring different palace tutors. Specifically, ones that would accept fewer displays of callous nonsense from rude children.

* * *

Hornet had still been grounded for sneaking out and worrying everyone. After everything, it was mostly just a formality, and pretty much just meant to encourage her to get in bed and _stay_ there until the migraines went away, at the _very_ least. 

Hollow snuck her some sweets with breakfast. She didn't have much of an appetite, but didn't turn down a honey trifle. They sat nearby, setting a little bouquet into a glass on her nightstand. These flowers didn't mean any particular conversation together. They were just some of Hornet's favorites. She always liked the red ones.

She prodded at her desert with her spoon, looking somewhat miserable. Hollow sat and waited for her to speak.

"... I'm sorry for what I said to you yesterday," she conceded after only a few seconds. They watched her, passive.

"It was uncalled for, and I won't excuse myself. But I think I may have been jealous."

That was unexpected enough that they straightened some in their seat, looking at her curiously. She looked back at them, and whatever she read in their face got her opting to refocus on her dessert instead.

"Come on. You, the imposing Princeling, but renowned and loved by everyone for being even more gentle than the queen. Always the belle of the ball, even when you don't actually want to _be_ there at all. It doesn't take long for people to like you. Even if it's only because they're just reading whatever they _want_ to off your mask. You intimidate the younger ones, but they still respect you. It's infuriating. _You're_ infuriating."

She spoke without malice, though she sounded tired enough that it fell flat as an attempt at teasing.

"... I know I may embarrass you, at times. You've got father's ancient sense of decorum, and everyone can see that. Your curse has robbed you of any ability to speak, but if I had any curse of my own, perhaps it'd be my inability to keep _quiet_."

Hollow reached out a hand, and snatched her trifle away before she could finally take a bite.

"Wh-- give that back!"

They shook their head, keeping her back with one arm while the other held the dessert aloft. She first tried to clamber around then under their palm, but eventually attacked by way of standing and pouncing like some ambush predator. Hollow only barely managed to keep from dropping the dessert onto the floor, by instead accidentally dropping it directly onto her face. 

Both of them froze. There was honey and merengue everywhere. Hornet looked absolutely confounded. 

Hollow shook with unrestrained laughter, certain they'd be _wheezing_ had they been biologically capable of it. Hornet shoved them right out of their seat, fuming and clearly warring with fury and secret amusement.

" _You're_ \-- you-- _suck!_ Get out of my _room!"_ She tried to shoulder them in the general direction of the door from where they now laid clutching at their stomach, still laughing. The result was a short series of halting slides across the marble floor, their cloak trailing after them, before she gave up and just stomped out herself to go wash. 

Hollow stood up again after a few seconds, and slowly regained their composure. They supposed they owed her another trifle. But that's a later issue. Now, though, they supposed they owed her some apology of their own. They set about the familiar task of drafting a note.

* * *

Hornet returned to her room to find her sibling had, in fact, gone. Good riddance, she supposed, if they were just going to be a nuisance. She had healing to do, after all.

On the way back to bed, she caught sight of a note on her desk. She opened it, expecting some half-assed apology for ruining her dessert, along with a genuine bid for her to get well soon. She was somewhat right. It read:

_Hornet,_

_Forgive me for my appalling display of one's natural lack of grace when lunged at by an angry spider._

_But more seriously, please forgive me for anything I might have done that made you believe I could ever be ashamed of you. You want for respect from your peers, and I know you'll soon have it as you grow into your own, and when you can more easily surround yourself with smarter company._

_But you'll always have respect from me. Not as a princess, or warrior, or symbol of international alliance, but as a person, who is capable of both good and bad in equal measure, the same as everyone else._

_And because you are a person, I humbly bid you to stop taking yourself, and me, so dreadfully seriously all the time. Perhaps you were too young to remember, but_ _you_ _were the one who taught me how the scope of a person doesn't have to be as large as the world they lay claim to. You taught me how one could matter simply because you loved them. In the absence of anything else, loving someone will always be a good enough reason to forgive them for having the audacity to exist. You taught me to laugh, too._

 _I never thought_ _ I'd _ _one day be the one to have to remind_ _you_ _to be a normal person with flaws. But as this seems to be the case, allow me to tell you that though a person is a difficult thing to be at times, I can promise you it's well worth it._

_With everything now said, I officially decree us even, after my later procurement of another honey trifle. If you experience some guilt over yesterday still, I will gladly accept both a solemn promise from you that you’ll never again pull any runaway antics right after you've recently come to some near-lethal harm, and a hug._

_With love,_

_Hollow_

* * *

Hornet thought her big sibling could really be such a sap, sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of my brain cells is my old film teacher yelling in my head about balancing A plots and B plots and another brain cell is thinking about how shitty the medici's were and also this week the madame de brinvilliers. history's so fucked up  
> my third and final braincell is always just sort of sad about hornet and demands i make that everyone else's problem


	5. Why We Don't Touch Dad's Corpse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crossposted from my tumblr from an ask, and if that person is seeing this i apologize for stealing the way you described it but it made me laugh a lot

There'd been some debate over whether or not his daughter was old enough to understand the circumstances of her own birth and power, but the Pale King was more than certain she was. No large milestone in particular had convinced him.

It was only that she was somewhat of a quiet child these days. Stern, almost. It was a shame that she was seeing fit to grow up so quickly, but it was not something anyone could have avoided. Not without shielding her from the world so much that she'd never have to feel the weight of it on her shoulders. And that would have been a bigger disservice to her, in the long run.

The king had also debated having Herrah present for this conversation. The Queen of Deepnest agreed with him fully that Hornet should be no royal of Hallownest, back when the girl had been nothing more than an idea. At that point in time, the relations between their realms were such that her citizens had recently destroyed his efforts at building a tram within their realm, killing all its workers and eating their accompanying soldiers in the process. Herrah herself hadn't commanded the violence, but neither had she punished anyone for it. 

Suffice to say, things had been less than amicable, and both rulers were clearly _abundantly_ territorial. And so Hornet was to be a boon for Deepnest only. 

And the child seemed to already know that, from what he noticed of her and how she interacted with her peers in the city. There was some distance there, whether self imposed or not. She already knew she had no claim to this land other than family, so it was only fair she'd finally know why.

The king opted not to involve Herrah in the end, as the discussion was firmly concerning his own realm and its laws. Hornet would speak to her mother about this if she wished, either way. 

But he _would_ involve her sibling. It was technically to be a discussion of succession, and excluding the Hollow from that might do more harm than good. They were a princeling, even if not Crown Princeling. 

The children met him in the throne room, like any proper audience. Unlike a proper audience, they didn't bother with any bowing or formal greetings. They'd already seen him once today at breakfast, and likely would again later. It'd be silly.

"Did something happen?" Hornet asked first.

"No. There is only a matter I wish to discuss with you."

The children glanced at each other, quickly enough that he found himself already calling upon his patience. 

"... What do _you_ believe this is about, then?" He asked calmly.

"I don't know. _You_ called _us_." Again, a tad too quickly. 

The king made a mental note to ask his retainers if anything had recently turned up broken, and elected to move on to the topic planned.

"It is about succession, to some degree."

That got them both at attention with startling efficiency. 

"First, Hornet, remind me now what you know of your birthright in Deepnest."

She needed a moment to collect her response. Whether or not the answer was obvious, it was still an unexpected question.

"... My mother is Queen, and as her only child, I am Crown Princess, and heir-apparent." The child spoke measuredly, like she'd been asked to recite a speech to an instructor at one of her lessons. 

"Correct," the king responded, as if he were one of those instructors. "And of your claim to Hallownest?"

She looked confused, then curious. 

"... I have none, right?"

"You do not. But do you understand why that is?"

She took another moment to think. Her next "speech" was less confident than the first had been. 

"... Because you and stepmother aren't supposed to ever die. And if you ever want to abdicate, you already have a full child that's older than me who could take the throne."

Hollow didn't move, but the king still felt their stare on him.

"Almost. We do not intend to expire or abdicate, but Hollow has the _choice_ of eventual co-rulership. They were not born with the intention of inheritance. You were, for your mother."

His words seemed to displease her somewhat. But surely he didn't need to _tell_ her that she wasn't born for that reason alone. Her mother loved her long before she'd even hatched. 

(And at that time, it was never supposed to matter whether or not _he_ did, too.)

The king continued. "You are both aware of your current circumstances in our kingdom. They are, at present, nothing so dire as the expectation to rule this place. As with anyone else, you live here because you were born here, with family to raise you here. It is a simple concept."

"So why are you explaining it like we don't know?" Hornet asked, patience wearing thin.

"Because," he spoke evenly, "although the circumstances of our family will not change, the circumstances of rulership may not be so static. There is a… secret, I suppose. One for you two alone to guard." 

Any restlessness was visibly quelled in Hollow, and seemed to double in Hornet. 

"What is it?"

"I would like to first request that you remind me what you know of _me_ , and my own place here."

The frown in Hornet's eyes told him she was only barely keeping down a groan. He intercepted it.

"Humor me."

"Why? You're king, there's _churches_ about you, and you were once a wyrm. Everyone knows all of that about you. You and stepmother are in all of our history texts. We already know everything."

"Everything?" 

That got her to think for another moment.

"I know you've little interest in the natural sciences, but remind me of the one tenant in their study that we can agree on the importance of."

"Don't start fires indoors." She deadpanned. 

Well. Even if she was just messing with him, he was glad they agreed on that.

"... The other one."

"Question everything," She said, with quick confidence. 

"Correct. How then, do you think, does a being go from a Wyrm to a King?"

She paused, then. The confusion never left, but it appeared less frustrated.

"... You gave your people their souls," she began, slow enough to show she was working through it out loud. "They worshiped you for that, and for the light. You're a god. A god can be whatever they want, and so you chose to also be king."

"All of that is true. But a mere verbal claim to kingship is something of a flimsy one."

Hollow spoke up, now. In their own way. They moved to point at one of their palms, watching him. 

He nodded, and held up his own hand, where the King's Brand was etched into the shell of his palm.

Hornet looked between them. "... What? What is it?"

He bent to show her. She moved closer to see. She looked surprised. 

It shouldn't come as a shock. He supposed she rarely got close enough to him anymore to notice, and he does not make a habit of showing the brand off. But still.

"... I've seen this before. In shrines and books," she realized aloud, pulling his hand a little closer in both of her’s.

He spoke quietly, letting her examine it. "When I first decided upon my home, I wanted to ensure my claim would be known to all who would inhabit it. All of my remaining power was used to coalesce that wish into my new form, and into a brand. And then I expired."

"...This _marks_ you as King?"

He nodded once.

She touched it, hesitantly. The grooves had long smoothed at their edges. 

"...Did it hurt?"

He had expected questions from her. This had not been one of them. She was staring up at him. He blinked.

"... A little, if I remember correctly."

She released his hand. How odd that she seemed to wonder about how the branding might have felt, rather than how _death_ had. But he supposed death hadn't left a scar she could see. 

He continued on topic. If another one of his own hands was now thumbing at the brand while he spoke, he didn’t notice for some time.

"These origins are important for the two of you to know. You, for your continued claim to your mother's land. And Hollow, you for any choice you might make to rule, and in the event that some catastrophically unlikely event causes me to give up my own claim, or somehow leave Hallownest entirely." He stood back up, regarding them both. 

"The brand is still out there. It is sealed within the remains of my old corpse, somewhere far off and remote, but still technically within Hallownest."

They both only stared.

"... What would it mean if either of us found it?" Hornet asked carefully.

"For you, forfeiting Deepnest." 

She nearly flinched. He continued.

"The Den of Spiders shall never accept rule from a Hallownest royal. Every one of my own attempts resulted in death and destruction. The continued separate identity of your homeland is important to them, to your mother, and I suspect to you. You do technically have a choice between crowns. But one is a choice that will turn your mother's land against you. It would be seen as choosing Hallownest over Deepnest, because that is exactly what the brand would mean for you."

"Then I choose Deepnest," she said without hesitation. 

"Then I tell you of the brand's existence, that you might know what to avoid should you ever find it." 

Her acceptance was something of a relief. Hallownest would grant her more power than she knew, and the ability to do pretty much anything she willed with the known world. But she loved her home and mother more than she might want that, enough that it hadn't even been a _debate_ in her eyes. She'd do just fine, at this rate.

The king looked to Hollow, now. 

"And I tell you, then, to do with the information as you will. I know you have yet to decide what to make of yourself in the future, but I will tell you that acquiring the brand without my knowledge shall be seen as a direct challenge to my rule. It would cause a schism, and would likely end the way crises of succession often do."

In a phrase: not well for pretty much anyone, including the kingdom.

Hollow looked down at Hornet, then back to him. No one seemed to have any further questions. The children knew what they needed to, and were excused from the conversation. 

It turned out he was wrong about them not having questions, however. Later that day, Hollow wrote their father a single one in a note, handed in person.

“Why did Hornet receive a different answer about the brand, if any claim to it other than your own would undoubtedly end in war?”

The king had stood there, unwilling to answer for some long moment. He had to, eventually.

The fact was, Hornet was old enough to know to be wary of the brand. But she didn't yet have to know that the kingdom already rested on a lining of his children’s corpses.

The king knew that Hollow had no reason to doubt they would be one more if they ever tried to stage a coup. Hornet would not be told about what lies in the abyss for some time yet. But once she knew, she would also undoubtedly come to the same conclusion her sibling had. And on top of that, she would never look at any of her family the same way again. 

Out of absolutely everyone, it would only be the Pale King himself who remained unsure whether or not he could go through with putting down an insurrection by one of his children. 

For his regrets, the void sea already calls. He is tethered, now, by the sealed gate between him and it, and by his duties to his kingdom, and to his family. Should those bonds not hold, he is unsure that he could survive it.

He is also unsure that he would want to.

These are not the answers he gave Hollow. He only said that she would come to that conclusion on her own, one day. “For now, she is a child,” he’d said, dismissing them. 

And for now, she thought well of him. 


	6. Deleted Scene: Catherine's Gloves Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "so let's talk about how you almost died. that was Fucked Up"  
> -the summary for this scene in the original chapter outline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah it's a double update today bc the idea of adhering to any sort of reasonable schedule just did Not spark joy 
> 
> i scrapped this bit from the poison chapter when i wrote it but then i went back and went "okay it won't fit with the pacing but i DO STILL WANT TO WRITE IT" so enjoy pk being a clumsy motherfucker of a dad for like five minutes

The Pale King had actually been the first one to seek Hornet out once the night was done. It was unreasonably late, but he apparently _knew_ she would not be asleep. And she knew without a doubt that she would _not_ get away with _pretending_ that she was again.

She had wanted to be done with talking. It'd been such a _long_ night. But evidently _he_ was not done. She didn't look up from the book in her hand that she wasn't actually reading. She was lucky enough that she hadn't accidentally grabbed it upside down when she heard him knock.

"You ought to be asleep," he began, obligatorily.

"So should you," she answered, steadfastly not looking up.

He approached her, but came no closer than her desk a few feet away. Her needle lay propped up against it, hastily put down instead of mounted in its place. Her father was not allowed to touch it, but she still didn't like the fact that he was closer to it than she was. 

He didn't say anything else. Was he waiting for her to start, even though _he_ was the one to intrude on her? Or was he just waiting for her to be done pretending to read?

She supposed that was normal of him. Experience told her that he'd be standing there for as long as she could keep up the act, no matter what it was he had to say. She actually used to find it amusing to mess with him. Whenever he found her in the middle of some work or training, he'd _always_ wait for her to finish. So sometimes, she would instead just start going through the motions of weaving or writing or whatever without actually making any progress, just to see if he'd notice. He definitely did, but the game would only end when she either got bored and stopped, or when her façade would crack and she was asked to explain to her utterly exasperated father what _exactly_ was so funny.

But now she was older, and she was _tired_ , and she didn't particularly like the idea of dealing with him _looming_ like that for the next hour. She snapped the book shut with a silent huff.

"Yes, _father?"_

He didn't _glare,_ but the look in his eyes directed into her own couldn't be described as anymore comforting. She met it, exhausted but not willing to be intimidated. She'd had a _long_ goddamn night.

"Were you aware," he spoke a tad more quietly than normal, "where exactly you had ended up, at the end of your excursion to trespass the limits of our kingdom?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. Lying so much already tonight had gotten her nothing but feeling like a coward. 

"You should have some understanding, then, of what it is you nearly _did_ to yourself."

"So that really _was_ you, then. And that thing within was the brand that makes you King?" She pressed.

"Which is it, then?" He demanded instead of answering, "Was it a mistake, or do you all of a sudden seek a seat of power here? Need I remind you what that would mean?"

"I _don't_ , so spare me." 

Deepenest needed her, and Hallownest would be far too much trouble if _it_ didn't presently need her, anyway. Besides, if anyone deserved to one day claim that brand if they wanted it, it was Hollow. 

"Then _why_ did you _reach_ for it?" He pressed on, voice hard.

Hornet looked away for a moment, called upon her composure, and shrugged. 

"I was angry, and it was there."

The king looked like he couldn't decide whether to be confused or infuriated. "That is _not_ a good enough excuse. Not for that," he said slowly.

"Then I pray you find the strength to cope with circumstances as they are." 

Hornet was proud of that one for how absolutely _appalled_ her father looked. (Though, she couldn't take full credit. Hollow had taught her that. She'd guessed they must have heard it from their mother, which made it even funnier.)

"... You pretend as though you understand the gravity of the situation, but your words and actions continue to disprove that. I will ask you again. Do you _kno_ _w_ what almost happened?"

"No, I don't. I did not inherit your _foresight,"_ she snapped back.

"You would have _died."_

"You mean 'could' have."

"I _mean_ what I _say_."

She blinked. "... The brand would have killed me?"

"No, but the collapse of the remaining shell would have."

"N--You said you saw other outcomes where I'd return branded. Hollow was there. They would have saved me."

"The likelihood that they would have failed and returned alone was _far_ higher."

" _Hollow_ doesn't _fail_ ," She sniped, still a bit sore. "Not by the standards of an ordinary bug."

It was a petty thing to say, but so was the implication that they would have returned without even looking for her body. (Unless they _would_ have found and taken it, and her father had meant they'd return "alone" in a different sense. That was, admittedly, a chilling thought.)

He ruffled, as much as someone like him could. It was mostly in the angry little shimmer of visible wingtips. 

" _Hornet_ . That is enormously unfair. You remember your sibling's circumstances; I do not need to tell you how damaging that suddenly acting as though they are _faultless_ would be. _Neither_ of you are ordinary, but it is apparent to everyone that the two of you have always at least somewhat relied on each other to feel like you are _enough_ . _"_

It'd been a while since any of her father's scolding had stung her like that. She hated when he was right, _especially_ about matters of any emotional consequence. She resolved then to apologize to Hollow in the morning.

" _And_ they had almost watched you be _killed_ ," he added, needlessly acerbic. 

Hornet snapped back, "But I _wasn't."_

"You _nearly_ _were_. It had been close."

"Are you here to yell at me for what happened, or what _didn't?_ Because _nothing_ happened _,_ and I am right _here,_ and it isn't fair to take your anger out on the version of me in front of you, just because you can't do it to the one that got herself _killed_." 

If she spoke a bit too harshly, it was only an attempt at levelling the playing field. Let him feel bad too, if he was so intent on making it so for her. He was dim, now, and looked at her as if at a loss. His expression wasn't that of the gratifying outrage she'd expected, or even guilt. Neither of those would have made her feel like she was missing something important, the way she did now.

She was always quick on the draw, however. Slow assessment of an important situation could put one at a major disadvantage, and so a future Queen must always be observant. And even if she _was_ a bit late, she still must face facts as they are, and work upon them. Work upon what you can read from your opponent, whether you gather your information from prior knowledge about them, or some instinct about them. 

Hornet was not sure whether it was prior knowledge about him or some instinct informing her that her father was just _afraid_ , but the fact itself remained.

"... You are right. That did not happen," he agreed, slowly.

"... But _you_ still saw my death today. And the aftermath." And that wasn't even bringing up the _poisoning_. Hornet kept her tone quiet, and cautiously level.

He did not respond.

"How many times?" She continued, unable to silence the curiosity. To be fair, it was about her own fate. 

"I cannot say exactly. I stopped looking after the first few, and left for kingdom's edge at once."

She had meant to ask not how many _possible_ outcomes resulted in her death, but how many _he'd_ seen. She did not press the matter. He still stood that few feet away, by the desk, by the needle, unmoving. Watching like he was affirming what was currently in front of him. Death was a certainty, but it was not an easy one to come to terms with, even in the abstract. Hornet sometimes imagined what it was like having to deal in the abstract so often, and so tangibly. She had decided very quickly that it was probably a miserable way to exist.

Perhaps he thought her cold, but she wasn't completely heartless. She supposed neither was he, even if that would have made him easier to understand. 

"I'm right here, now," she offered quietly, _almost_ grudgingly.

Her father strode over those final few paces, and hugged her for the second time in a day. Technically. It was past midnight. But it was still by _far_ more than either of them were used to. Her father was not as cold as Hollow, nor as warm as her mother. And for having known him her entire life, it was odd to try and come to grips with the fact that he was some actively worshiped god. Hymns were sung about him. Some of his more devout servants believe he'd created everything. No one knew about what he'd done at the abyss. She felt some unevenness to his breath as he let it out, one of his hands carefully cradling the back of her head to his shoulder, and all the other arms around her shoulders and middle respectively.

She thought of the Weavers, and of her shitty classmates. She'd learned early that all of life came at a cost, as her own was supposed to be her mother's. Equilibrium may just be the price of a birth with rank. A cavernous palace bargained for breathing room. 

She relaxed a little into his hold, this time. And even reciprocated, some. It was slow, and maybe overly cautious, but it came in time. He held tight.

"... You are still grounded," he finally spoke, after about a minute this way. She forgot to take offense to his words, for being too distracted by the weak, poorly restrained shake in his voice. 

"Alright," was all she said.

They parted a few seconds after that, but not before she felt him take some steadying breath. Hornet found herself not entirely knowing where to look, now. She settled for letting her gaze sit at her needle. 

"...I… am sorry, about your friend," her father said quietly. Of _course_ there was still more he couldn't leave alone. 

She only huffed, and thought about kingdom's edge, and how no one had thought to come to her defense or offer her aid in what they all perceived might have been great danger. Lieke certainly didn't deserve to lose herself to the king's curse out in the wastes, but she would also not be _sorely_ missed in class.

"She wasn't my _friend_ ," Hornet responded, the mental prodding at those embers lending a little heat to her voice. Heat that, apparently, the king misconstrued as in his direction. He also seemed to come to some other false conclusion based on her emphasis of the word "friend". There was an awkward, halting cadence to his next words.

"...Ah. I… see. You… I commend you on your maturity about this situation, then. These sorts of… connections… may be quite common, in your youth, should you choose to pursue them, after some… time."

Hornet stared at him, too stunned to say anything for a second. He, too, had not been looking directly at her. Unthinkably, he kept talking. 

"...Your mother might be better suited for any advice you might need on these sorts of matters-- though these specific circumstances of-- separation-- are admittedly not--"

" _Father_ . She was _not_ my-- _anything_. Please, just-- please shut up." She interrupted him in lieu of acting on the urge to either escape from the window, or chase her father out at needlepoint. He stared back, caught further off guard.

"... Ah. That-- good." He still stood there. She nearly screamed. 

" _Goodnight_ , _father._ "

"By your leave, then."

Abruptly freed from his apparent stag-in-headlights-like defense mechanism, he nodded and all but fled.

Hornet fell back onto her pillow, and wondered how much of that tea she would have had to drink at dinner to have been spared this night.


	7. The Wyrm and the Root

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: "How I Met Your Mother but told from a more interesting and third party perspective about more interesting beings and also fuck those writers what an absolutely inane series does anyone even like ted? anyone? are we SUPPOSED to like ted? also why is neil patrick harris playing a heterosexual personification of sexual harassment. also the ending SUCKED but like they had no direction and no way to pay off 9 seasons of convoluted bullshit in any way that could even be remotely satisfying bc everyone is an asshole and all their relationships were either codependent or unfeasible with the way personalities and ambitions actively clashed against each other bc the writers actively sacrificed chemistry for ~DRAMA~ at every turn so everyone just had this weird bad history with each other???? and im not even GETTING into how the women in the story were kind of just one dimensional plot and character devices and like? sexist grossness aside it is literally not possible to make a compelling relationship narrative when you dont even think of one half of a 2 person relationship as a character, you won't get depth. Craig Thomas what film school let you graduate. get your money back" 
> 
> anyway heres a less angsty one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also hornet's nebulous age here is at about "just barely old enough to start giving everyone shit"

The closer they got to their destination, the less assured Hollow found themself about the whole affair. They were going to be in trouble. None of their parents would be happy with them sneaking so far from the city so late, if they found out. And with their little sister in tow to boot, although she appeared at _least_ a thousand times less worried than they were.

The worst part about all of this was that it had been _Hollow's_ idea, even if Hornet was the one with the information to execute it.

The structure was in view, only marginally less ominous than they remembered. It still wasn't too late to just… bail. 

Except Hornet was walking much faster than they were, with their destination so close and her own confidence entirely intact. They stopped her by reaching out and hooking a finger through the handle of her needle. She stumbled to a halt, and shot them an irritated look.

"Rude. What, are you scared? You don't have to be. They're all nothing but _talk_. That's why we're here." 

They weren't sure whether she was trying to assure them or make fun of them, but their hold did not let up. They tipped their mask back towards where they'd come from, in a small motion.

"... Hollow, if we go back _now_ , we might still get in trouble, but for _no_ reason. And we're already here. It's only sensible to go through with it _._ "

They found it entirely unfair that one so young could spin sneaking out to the circus in the dead of night as _sensible._ Their displeasure evidently came across obviously enough to earn a scoff.

"Do you _have_ to be such a golden child all the time? Father's lectures are annoying, but they won't _kill_ you.” She patted their wrist, placating.

"Now let go of my needle and hurry up."

They grudgingly acquiesced, and followed her to the entrance of the Grimm Troupe's big top. Hornet stepped into the threshold without even the slightest reservation. Apparently, neither natural instinct nor the early memory she should still have of this place were enough to instill any fear into her. It certainly wasn't the godsblood that emboldened her, or else Hollow wouldn't be so rattled behind her. They supposed that their baby sister was just particularly bullheaded. 

(Hollow's mother had taught them that making jokes to oneself was often a good way to assuage anxiety. It did help a little.)

The inside of the tent was a bustle of activity, dimly lit, but still somehow gave off the impression of a mid-afternoon work day, though it was well past midnight. 

This was also odd because Hollow had never _once_ heard of the Grimm Troupe ever putting on a real show, even though they apparently set up in Hallownest rather often. What in the world did all these creatures even _do?_

With a plume of red smoke so sudden it had Hollow reaching for a nail they did not carry, the troupe's master materialized in front of them. Hornet was unfazed, but hesitated before greeting him. Oddly, she glanced at Hollow first, before deciding on a polite little bow.

"... Ringmaster," was what she went with. Grimm regarded her for a second, as if calculating something. And then at her lead, he bowed much deeper, and with a flourish. Hollow wondered if they were only imagining that it came off as more teasing than polite, as did the formality in his voice. 

"The little Princess graces our humble stage, and with _another_ very important guest in attendance. To what do we owe the pleasure? And how fares your mother the Queen?"

"She's fine," came the bewilderingly flat response. "Hollow is the reason we're here. They want to know something specific, and I thought you might be able to answer."

He straightened, and turned his gaze on Hollow. His eyes were as uncannily bright as they remembered. Hollow held their posture with well-practiced stoicism.

"Oh? It's not too common for ones so young as yourselves to go searching for wisdom from the ancients."

"We're not _children_ ," Hornet was quick to correct.

Grimm considered this. "I suppose the Princeling is not a child, are they? But certainly young relative to their parents, or to me." He very deliberately did not include Hornet in his musings on adulthood and relative age. She absolutely did not miss this, and spoke sharply.

"Will you help us, or _not?"_

He hummed, unruffled. "I suppose it depends on the question, so please try and make it a good one."

Something told Hollow that the particulars of what Grimm thought made a good question were probably beyond what either of them could guess. So, they may as well just go for it. They gave Hornet a nudge as the go-ahead.

"Hollow would like to know how their parents met," she requested.

The room was all of a sudden rather quiet, as was Grimm. It didn't last long enough to worry either of them before the ruckus redoubled into rather delighted sounding chatter, and the Troupemaster grinned wide. 

"That _is_ a good question. Very well done!" He then looked at Hollow again, and tilted his head just a _touch_ too far. "But why not simply ask _them_? If you seek an objective retelling, you have the dear Wyrm. If it's a fondly recounted tale of nostalgia from their youth that you want, you have the dear Root." 

"I wondered that as well," Hornet looked at them too, now. They only shook their head. Not happening.

"Fair enough," Grimm for some reason decided. He held up an arm, silencing the room with a swift motion. He looked between the siblings with a considering eye. 

"My troupe and I are more than equipped to regale an audience with legends both mythical and monstrous in nature. And your lovely family fits both definitions quite well. I trust our young royal guests can spare some time for an exclusive performance?" He held a hand up to the side, where it hovered poised for some gesture.

Hornet looked, oddly, just a little resigned. She glanced at Hollow. They shrugged. She returned the gesture. 

"... I suppose," was her absolutely lukewarm response. The room cheered. 

Grimm snapped his fingers, and spotlights came down upon the stage to illuminate a large swath of the ground where he stood at the center. The other circus members rushed around in a mad dash to set the stage. On fire. Set the stage on fire. Thankfully it was only a little bit, and in a controlled campfire burn in a fancy looking firepit hastily set up in front of Grimm for the ambiance. The larger members brought around things to sit on, and all made an audience of themselves sitting around the edge of the spotlight. A vaguely familiar looking bug with an accordion took up a spot behind Grimm, and started up a tune Hollow might have described as unexpectedly whimsical, except it was _definitely_ in the wrong key. 

They heard Hornet yelp, and turned to see she'd been snuck up on and lifted onto the back of a bug far too big to have possibly moved so swiftly and silently. Said bug wore a half mask, and a smile on her face near identical to the one painted on. 

"Ahhhhh! Little lovely, how good to see you again! How do you do? Cute little thing, almost cute enough to eat. Almost!" She crowed, pinching the side of Hornet's mask with a claw and giggling.

"... Hello, Divine." Hornet grumbled out, bristling like a creature that might fire spikes from its shell if further mishandled. She did not jump down. Hollow got the sense that this "Divine" would simply pick her up again and maybe smother her some more, even if repeatedly stabbed, and that they both knew it. 

Hollow stared at their sister, and signed a question that could also be interpreted as a rather crass exclamation of confusion.

"... Mother and I _occasionally_ visit the Grimm Troupe. Mother… is on good terms with the Nightmare King."

Well, there wasn't exactly time to unpack _all_ of that right now. They supposed they _did_ remember when she'd been tinier, and would sometimes talk about going to the circus with Herrah. Though Hollow had obviously assumed she'd meant _a real_ one. A less terrifying one, that hadn't once almost _killed_ both of them. They settled for repeating the sign.

"Don't worry about it."

A hush fell over the crowd when Grimm held up a palm, in the very first action Hollow had seen from him that might even be _remotely_ be described as kingly. The song played on in the backdrop as he spoke. 

"My clan and kin so often only see civilizations once they've already passed their date of expiration. Here we have a rare opportunity indeed; to recount the _birth_ of a nation instead. And on that note; what a wonder! That the kingdom of Hallownest shall be a play we will get to experience in all acts, from prologue to curtain call!" He spread his arms, showing the full expanse of his natural cloak of wings. The crowd cheered and tittered at his words, though they had sent a _chill_ through Hollow. They couldn't _fathom_ having to outlive their home that they loved so dearly, or having to watch it die. 

…

Hollow decided they did not particularly _like_ the Grimm Troupe, with its penchant for digging up unpleasant memories. But hopefully they'd at least get the information they came for out of tonight. They sat down on a scarlet cushion someone had set down behind them at some point, politely at attention. Grimm continued when the room again quieted.

"Once, this sprawling hub of hallowed light and gifted mind had been naught but a series of deep and particularly _drafty_ tunnels and caverns. The tunnels themselves began long before our story-- but for brevity's sake, we begin somewhere _between_ the reign of the unknowable Lord of Shades, and the reign of the unmissable Pale King. Things already lived here, as things always live everywhere; always different droves of people _always_ claiming themselves the first to be somewhere, or do something, or have some importance."

"Say 'always' one more time, Master!" Divine jeered, sparking a brief wave of laughter. A horrid knot of embarrassment formed within Hollow at the very _thought_ of ever being in Grimm's current situation, but the Troupemaster himself seemed to relish in the attention. Perhaps it fueled him. He went on, composed as ever, and flicked a wrist to spark up a strange little whirlwind of embers above the campfire as he spoke.

"Among the things that already lived here, something holy also took to seed and sprouted beneath the soil, eventually growing vast and trailing every little capillary of its root system through all the earth and rock of this place. And what a fearsome Root system it was; at peak form, it could have brought all of pre-Hallownest crashing down into the abyssal sea below and left it a choked crater in its wake with relatively little effort. And so describes Hallownest's eventual Queen; mass potential for invasive destruction to all its ecosystems, but too fascinated by sympathy for the life-forms that populate them to do so. The Root of Life, homegrown."

With a burst of hot wind, the fire cracked and exploded upwards the moving silhouette of a complex tree-like figure, made entirely of solid flame. It bothered Hollow to look directly at it, for the heat and for the difficulty to reconcile the physics of it with their eyes. It seemed far larger in scope and more complicated than the being _they_ knew as their mother, however. They had known that both their parents had diminished their forms to walk among mortals, but they never considered how _much_.

"And so it watched over its domain here, for a time, in your god-standard way. Getting into spats with other local beings of note, establishing its territory, growing its influence, etcetera etcetera. But one day, it sensed something. Another thing of great power, gnawing through the very rock where Root had laid claim! It was approaching quickly, and altogether quite _rudely_." Here, the impossible light show materialized a great mass that formed into something with spire-tip teeth and a frighteningly long body. 

"This great, formidable serpent had travelled far from lands vicious in search of its new home. Who could guess why it chose _here_ to make its nest? The existence of living bugs that it could enthrall into worship was certainly a plus. And it's worth noting that it, too, could sense the powers of the multiple gods that already settled this place. Any one of them could have perhaps been a threat, but the Pale Wyrm had always been a dangerously _curious_ sort of creature." The apparitions of fire danced around each other, forms rippling and losing shape at intervals in a continuous spiral of hot air.

"Anyway, there is no doubt at all that the Root and Wyrm were drawn to each other from the beginning, in the way that two beings of equally unmanageable ambition tend to be. Though they could catch only an echo of each other's power before they'd met, neither could deny their interest.

The Root thought: 'Have I found an _equal_? A being whose power matches mine, who might offer some challenge to me? Perhaps I should kill it. If it leaves half as potent a corpse, it shall decompose into such wonderful fertilizer for my continued growth.'

And the Wyrm thought: 'Have _I_ found an equal? A being who might share in my instinct for creation, and propagation of life? Perhaps I should offer a treaty; if our domains work well together, I could rule this place with an ally at my doorstep, who would stand as bulwark between me and any future potential usurper.' "

The show of flame erupted into scarlet fireworks, which glittered as they showered down. The audience that consisted mostly of Grimm's own employees and worshipers ooed and gasped. None of it seemed to ring false or placating, as far as Hollow could tell. But certainly displays like this couldn't be _unusual_ for them all by now? His continued speech was only him for a bit, no special effects beyond a dramatic gentling of his voice.

"But when they finally collided, both were stunned, and any thoughts of murder or convenience were quelled into curious awe. For the Root had not expected a presence that exuded power far beyond the _fraction_ it had gotten a whiff of at a distance, nor the catastrophic potential that it held for both invention and death in equal measure. 

And the Wyrm had not expected the sensation of a pale light almost like its own, but controlled down into something so steady, so artistic, and so gentle with the fragile things that lived around its roots. 

They were fascinated with each other, and that was enough to keep them living around each other amicably, for some time. Neither of them held the vocabulary to call this affinity _affection_ for the other, for neither had ever quite _experienced_ affection from another like them. This would change over time, as they planned and created alongside one another, sharing hopes and dreams for their domains and futures with one another. And so many of them had aligned so well. The Root took easily to their friendship, grounded and secure in its existence as ever. The Wyrm… had had to adjust. It had come from a clan of beings far more _combative_ than your average flora, you see. Its attempts at offering protection, and its many gifts, and all its attempts at impressing the Root had been… somewhat clumsy. But, they certainly worked in a bigger sense than the Wyrm had intended, for the Root had figured out that the Wyrm loved it long before the _Wyrm_ even understood that. Perhaps it really did impress the Root, or perhaps it was just the sheer _earnestness_ of it all that caused the Root to fall in turn. In all likelihood, both had been good reasons."

The story was starting to feel less like a performance, and more like just another shovelling of court gossip. Still, Hollow hadn't come here with any particular expectations. And they supposed they found these origins sort of romantic, in how it'd apparently been a slow courtship built on shared ideas and creation, where both learned how to trust together. Hornet didn't seem to agree, and this entire time looked about a second away from gagging.

"Once the two of them were finally able to figure out what to _do_ about their feelings, they decided to marry. And rather hastily, compared to how long it'd taken them to even admit there'd been any feelings at all! Marriage would be a rather individualized process for beings like them; there aren’t exactly rituals in place for things that predate their chosen civilizations. So, the way the two decided to _officially_ swear to each other in union was in the act of diminishing their forms to something buglike, that they may walk among those they would rule and live as they do. Albeit with many more privileges. The idea had once been a fantasy of the Wyrm’s, and its proposal to commit to it _together_ had been met with some hesitation. But ultimately, the Root had not had to do something so drastic as _die_ to achieve a less complex form, and so it agreed to join the Wyrm below. There may have been a more mundane reception party after the fact, but if there was, _I_ hadn’t been invited.”

Here again he started up images in fire of the mammoth previous forms of the King and Queen, and all watched as the shapes flaked apart at the edges until they were more familiar.

"The two chose their forms for themselves, and for their own reasons, naturally. But one could argue that at least _one_ of those reasons had been yet another mutual attempt to impress the other. For when they reformed, the Root had not particularly expected to meet a man, and one with eyes dark and deep as the abyssal sea. And the Wyrm had not particularly expected to meet a woman, and one of stature most regal and proud, with curves to match." 

Hornet did gag out loud, this time. Hollow found that they agreed with her. It wasn't helping that Grimm was _pantomiming_ , though that got plenty of laughs from the rest of the audience. The flame-wrought silhouettes of their parents bowed once to each other, and then evaporated back into scattered embers.

"And so that is how they exist now, and likely will until the end of their days."

"How do you _know_ all that?" Hornet piped up suddenly, finally hopping down from her perch. "All those things about what they thought and felt. You couldn't have been there, and they certainly wouldn't have _told_ you."

"Ahh, another good question. I was not there, no, but others were. Others who would forever be haunted by nightmares of crushing leviathans and warring gods. Tribes that followed other gods before the King and Queen very _decisively_ asserted this place as their territory, and their territory alone. Unn's lot. The mushroom folk. The moths. Your father's innocent romance was only a backdrop in all the ecstatic destruction of how your current society came to be, but it’d resulted in its fair share of common myth by peoples long extinct.” He explained, as the spotlight dimmed. Something about how pleasantly he spoke disquieted Hollow. They tried not to meet his eyes, but upon looking anywhere else, they noticed the rest of the audience had vanished. 

“We feasted on the terrors wrought by the gods and masters of this place right before Hallownest came to exist, and I wager we will have a similar feast when it finally ceases to be. I wonder what we’ll learn from _that_ aftermath? Perhaps luck will repeat, and we’ll outlive yet another god or two."

The Troupemaster spoke slowly and crisply, and eyed his guests with a mildness that made Hollow abruptly remember what he really _was_. 

When did the room empty? Had it ever actually been full? The musician played on and the firepit burned, the only two pieces of evidence that anything had ever taken place here. The tent was dark save for that small campfire, but so _hot_.

Hollow felt the void within them crawl. Grimm's eyes pinned them to the spot. They would have grabbed their sister and run away otherwise. This had been a very, very bad idea.

A loud, frustrated groan broke the atmosphere, and caused the musician to hit a sour note that abruptly ground his song to a halt.

" _Grimm!_ Stop scaring Hollow! This is _exactly_ why I’ve never brought them over." Hornet hissed suddenly. Hollow stared at her.

Grimm _laughed_.

"Apologies. I’d say I couldn’t help myself, but I admit I did _want_ to see what fear might taste like within a being that stores the shadows themselves at their heart. You know, I wouldn't have known I was successful in inspiring any at _all_ if you hadn't just told me."

He looked at Hollow, still grinning like a clown.

"No hard feelings, Princeling."

Hollow wondered if it'd be gratifying to punch him as he closed the distance between himself and the siblings, to stand a pace or two away.

"I don't suppose you'd like to stay and chat some more? It is still quite early in the day."

"It's after midnight, and no." Hornet retorted. Ever the dignified princess when it suited her, she only half bowed again, and recited a formal goodbye sufficient to get them both out of here.

"Thank you for hosting us, Ringmaster. I hope you and your kin will be well."

Grimm's expressions were difficult to glean when he wasn't actively hamming it up, but Hollow thought they read some confusion in his moment of hesitation. He looked at the child, and then to Hollow. Then his face brightened like he'd finally figured out some amusing puzzle, and he tutted.

"Princess! I'm sure you don't _mean_ to wound me so with all this sudden adherence to formality tonight, and in front of your sibling. Why, one might even fall prey to the assumption that you thought I'd _embarrass_ you in front of them. But that can't _possibly_ be right! The fearsome spawn of Wyrm and Beast would _certainly_ never have anything about herself or loved ones she might be _ashamed_ of."

"I'm not ashamed of anything. You should _sense_ that," she huffed back.

"And yet…" he trailed off, gesturing in a vague circle with a hand and watching her. Hornet said nothing, and they appeared to be in some sort of standoff for a few seconds.

Hornet then sighed so dramatically that it fit in perfectly well with the scenery. She then stepped forward, and he knelt down, and she _hugged_ him.

"'Bye, Grimm." She reluctantly amended her farewell. He snickered.

"It's always nice seeing you. Give a kiss to your mother for me."

She made a disgusted noise, and pulled back. 

"Do it yourself. If I tell her I was here she'll _ask_ me about you."

He flung a hand to his chest in faux offense, smiling all the while.

" _Rude_ little terror! Please, never change."

"That's not funny."

She rejoined Hollow, who found themself grateful that they did not possess the facial capability to _gawk._

Grimm offered them another little bow.

"Lovely to finally see you again. Give your father my regards; it's always a hoot to watch him quickly discard those."

Having had more than their fill of nonsense, Hollow turned on heel and walked right out. Hornet followed, pausing briefly to curtsy to the musician when she passed him.

"'Bye Brumm."

"Hrm. 'Bye, princess."

* * *

The siblings managed to sneak back into the palace without incident. Hollow was grateful, as they were entirely unsure that they currently had it in them to process a lecture on top of everything else. They held off on their questions until they were back in the safety of their room. They flopped face-down into their bed, lay still for a second, and then moved their head slightly so they could look at their sister.

"Why?" Was the one single hand sign they decided to start with. 

"... So, mother has been seeing the Troupemaster for some time,” she muttered.

Silence.

“Please don't make me explain more.”

They dropped their hand. This was fair. Super weird, but fair. Hollow couldn't fault her for not telling them sooner, as they sure wouldn't have known how to go about it in her place. One more parent for her collection, then.

"So, why _didn't_ you want to just ask your parents? Even with the _circus_ as the only other option?"

Ah. How to explain it to her. It really wasn't all that difficult to understand, from Hollow's position. They had been present during their parents' separation, and thus had to bear witness firsthand to the way their father had absolutely _pined_ for his wife for so many years. Of course, they hadn't let themselves form an opinion on it back then, but in hindsight, it'd been rather embarrassing to watch. Though Hornet seemed to be under the impression that her father was entirely devoid of any ability for sappy, romantic nonsense, this was entirely untrue, and Hollow had not wanted to risk watching him get all starry eyed again. And their mother was no better. She could hide that sort of thing more skillfully, but at the same time, she didn't try as hard to on any given day. 

It was sweet how affectionate the King and Queen were with each other these days, really, it was. Especially since to literally everyone else in the world outside of family, the two were the absolute portrait of royal stoicism.

But it could also be so saccharine that it was sometimes nearly sickening. Enough was enough, thank you. They'd have taken literally any other route to sate their curiosity about the past, over the threat of having to witness yet more displays of mushy devotion by their parents.

They settled on another single hand sign, deciding it'd adequately encompass their opinions on its own.

"Awkward."

"Ah. That's fair," Hornet nodded. 

Hollow laid there for a moment, and wondered how much of what they saw in that tent tonight had been real, cast included. They decided on one more question. It was only one word, but it was one they had to spell out. It took Hornet a few tries to remember one of the letters, but she eventually repeated it. 

“... ‘Divine’? Oh. She’s their fortune teller. She likes to scream, and tell people how they might die. She’s okay, except she wants me to call her ‘auntie’. I’d rather not.”

Hollow would not pretend to know how a common bug lives their life, but they had a creeping feeling that this sort of thing didn’t normally happen in a common life. That must be so peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of you who arent following me off of ao3 yes grimm and herrah are dating and yes brumm is in there too. the nightmare king's got two hands


	8. Songstress Marissa's doing fine too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i said so
> 
> (crossposted from a drabble request)
> 
> circa "baby hornet" era

The White Lady had received a personal invitation for herself and two guests to a new opera, written by an up-and-coming bard with promise who'd managed to snag the most renowned vocalist in Hallownest for a role in his latest work. The composer had very likely hoped that the Queen would bring along both her novel and mysterious royal child, and the Pale King himself. The royal family all in attendance on opening night would have skyrocketed that person to instant stardom.

The good Queen did, in fact, elect to bring the Princeling. She did not, however, take her husband along. Her choice of guest in lieu of him was made extremely evident at the venue's entrance, when the little Princess of Deepnest reached out from her stepmother's arms to hand the slightly bewildered owner of the opera house her ticket. 

The small crowd of gawkers they met once inside-- all of whom clearly thought they were being so surreptitious-- was perhaps a little perplexed. Hollow did not know whether it had been their father's active choice to refuse the invitation, or if their mother had simply not even _considered_ bringing him, for knowing how much he'd have hated the attention. Both scenarios were equally likely.

Hornet had clung to the Lady's arm somewhat at the weight of so many eyes on her, but her nerves seemed quickly forgotten as they entered their skybox. The child marveled at the opulent arched ceilings and rich blue velvets, and at how much higher up they all were than everyone else. For Hollow, the appeal of their reserved seats was mainly in that no one could possibly see them without being extremely obvious about trying to watch them. And certainly no one could sneak up on them or their family all the way up here.

Hornet attempted to wriggle out of the Lady's grasp, but after enough experience with the child's escapist antics, she was able to keep her steady.

"If I let you down, you must take your seat. This is not the proper place to be running about."

"Okay. I wanna see!"

The child was let down. Hollow themself put little stock in the idea that she'd keep still, and she proved them correct almost immediately when she ran up to peer between the railing. She first stared at the stage, and then up at the ceiling as the lights dimmed.

"Dear thing, what did I just say?"

"But I want to _see_."

"There is no need to lean, your view will be sufficient from here. Come."

Hornet relented, and hopped up on her own seat next to Hollow. It was big enough comparatively that she could probably curl up on the cushion and nap in the event that she got bored enough. That probably wasn't a bad thing, even if the Lady might again lecture her on propriety later. Even then, Hollow was certain that their mother would not try to wake her.

The curtain opened. Hollow had done prior research on opera after receiving their invitation, but they had no personal expectations for this experience. Their mother had only advised them to brace for crowds and loud music. As this was evidently some form of high art, they found that they weren't quite sure _how_ to form an opinion on the costumes, or the singing, or whatever the story was. There was _apparently_ some sort of story. 

When Hornet complained about not understanding what they were saying, the White Lady had to inform her charges that enunciation mattered less to these sorts of performers than the ability to hit the right note for the right amount of time. So then, this whole thing was an exercise in showcasing skill. Understandable. They sort of wondered why a bard was necessary at all, that being the case.

They found their attention on the crowd more than the stage, more often than not. Hollow attempted to glean what the audience was intended to be doing or feeling. Much of the arts somewhat escaped them, but it was their understanding that people watched shows for some form of enjoyment. This too must be escaping them. The audience appeared mostly silently stone faced, with the odd interspersion of a bug here and there dabbing at their eyes with a handkerchief. Was that polite to do every once in a while? They certainly couldn't tell if there was any audio cue in the near-shouting barrage of vowels and trills. 

Hollow decided they may have an opinion on opera after all. It wasn't an especially enthusiastic one. 

Meanwhile, Hornet was getting restless in her seat. She hadn't been allowed her toy needle here, and if sitting still in a place like this for twenty minutes was an effort for Hollow in all their experience, they couldn't imagine how poorly their little sister was handling it. Unfortunately for her, the White Lady was the best at catching and retrieving her out of all her caretakers. If the child tried to sneak off the chair and dash off, she'd be swiftly intercepted by an outstretched arm, temporarily reformed to take on prehensile root properties, that would loop around her middle and deposit her back into her seat. And the Lady wouldn't even have to glance at her to do it. This was a relatively common occurrence. 

Even knowing this, it was clear that Hornet was still about to try. She scooched forward in her seat a bit, and Hollow decided to spare her the indignity of the inevitable. They reached into their cloak, and got her attention once they were able to procure some scraps of thread and fabric-- one of her ongoing projects taken from her desk-- and a sewing needle. She'd been making better progress at sewing than weaving these days, and it often kept her busy for a good while. Hollow had _immediately_ decided to bring something to keep her attention after learning exactly what an opera would entail. She brightened, and took her things from their hands to set to work, now keeping still and entertained in her seat.

Their mother watched the two with a contemplative look. Hollow kept their attention down on the stage, but couldn't help the brief spike of fear at the prospect of having acted out of turn. They knew by now that this was an illogical reaction, even if they couldn’t stop it. Their confidence in that knowledge was validated some by the little chuckle they heard from their mother off to the side. 

(So long as they were allowed to act on what they thought, they privately thought that bringing a small child to an opera was only a marginally better choice than bringing their _father_ would have been. That didn't mean it was a good choice, it just meant that the Pale King would have been a more _exceedingly_ awful one. 

But, they wouldn't fault their mother for the fact that she was still learning how to spend time with her children. They knew she was trying. This was all still rather new for everyone.)

The house lights dimmed further, leaving a single cluster of spotlights in the center. A new actress made her debut, and Hollow actually recognized this one, a butterfly by the name of Marissa. They knew her from posters in the city, and from hearsay about how her voice possessed a unique quality to it that was almost fae. Before the plague, she’d apparently mostly been singing for the dwindling patrons of the Pleasure House. The survivors had raved about her to their wealthy friends, and so her career had _exploded_ when the arts experienced something of a rebirth in Hallownest. This was the extent of Hollow’s knowledge. They also weren't exactly any sort of expert on what a voice could or couldn't do, but either way, hers certainly seemed to leave an impression.

(Though, they had very recently tried looking for their own. They had never thought to try before, of course, as they had never allowed themself to think of very much at all. But a few weeks back they thought that maybe if they tried hard enough now that they had the drive, just one more miracle might befall them. They had no such luck, of course.)

The actress began to sing, and Hornet's attention was on the stage again, for the first time since the performance began. Marissa really must be skilled, then, to be able to pull the child's attention away from her beloved project. 

"She's pretty," she whispered to her sibling, secretive. So maybe it was not _entirely_ the skill. 

But speaking of, Hollow could admit to being intrigued by her vocal performance. Maybe because it was softer than the booming arias demonstrated by the main players. Sadder. They were able to understand that her character was some guiding specter that now provided exposition for the protagonist, and that she'd died alone long ago. Marissa played the part well. The opera house was rapt as it watched this glamorous creature expertly cry suffering that did not exist, and beyond inventing it, made it perfectly perfumed and poetic. So many eyes upon one who sang so passionately of isolation, while empyrean stage lights shone from above for her alone, refracted soft through her delicate, manicured wings. And it all seemed to tear _real_ feelings out of quite a few people. 

Hollow themself still did not understand art, but clearly it must be very important. The songstress was so renowned; obviously it was important enough to her that she’d chosen to devote her life to her craft. That must certainly count for something.

With the end of her song came the end of the first act. When the house lights rose again for intermission, the Queen stood, and bade her children follow her out of the box.

"Is it over?" Hornet asked.

"As far as our attendance is concerned, yes."

Hollow looked at her, then flipped through the playbill. There were still four more acts. But their mother seemed to know what she was talking about, so they followed. 

Back in the lobby, the Lady was set upon by acquaintances wishing to know her opinion so far. The criticism of the Queen herself would set _the_ precedent for every other critic, after all. She knew this, and so deftly withheld her opinion from the public by turning the questions around on the askers until they skittered away. 

See, not many bugs of noteworthy standing were brave enough to risk saying something about art or fashion to the Queen's face, if there was a chance she might disagree with it. Such a thing was apparently a horrifying and unthinkably grievous social error, regardless of whether or not the Lady herself actually cared. And in fact, she hardly ever seemed to, and in truth would confide to Hollow that really, it was the King who made a more discerning aficionado for many forms of art, and music in general, than she. But her status as a trendsetter among the people held, by nature of what she was to the kingdom, and her more active participation in it. And so she had to choose her words carefully, lest any carelessness with that power cause some calamity for some poor creative's career. 

Hollow thought it looked like an awful lot of trouble. Not for the first time tonight, they felt just a bit more content with not having to worry about the consequences of having a voice.

"Before we go, I ought to visit a friend of mine. She had a hand in the production, and I would be remiss to disappear on her without first offering a word of congratulations," the Queen informed her children, quietly enough to read as cautious of the crowded room. 

"Are we going to see backstage?" Hornet asked immediately. 

"We are indeed. Stay close, now."

On average, Hollow had the sense that the family's general opinion on the production had been lukewarm at best. Though, they couldn't really speak for their mother. But a behind the scenes look might still be interesting. Naturally, no one stopped the Queen from going wherever she pleased, even if the elevator was guarded against everyone else. The guard had only bowed before the family breezed right passed him.

"Backstage" was a brief flurry of rooms that Hollow noted were not actually behind the stage at all, for that had been on the ground floor. The one they entered was bigger than expected, and could aptly be described as luxurious pandemonium. Bouquets of competing sizes strewn about on every surface, (some meaning admiration and beauty, some different kinds of love, and many just pretty nonsense,) racks of costume clothing jammed up against the wall, and a large and well lit vanity/dresser combination covered in more types of makeup than most people would know what to do with. Seated in front of that vanity on a hastily jammed-in piano bench was Marissa, no longer in the ostentatious costume that sold her as a dramatic rendition of a tortured spirit. 

She appeared somewhat alarmed at the unbidden interruption at first, but her expression evened back out at the realization of who it was. The recognition on her face was a bit surprising, though Hollow supposed it oughtn't be. Their mother often kept influential friends. The two women greeted each other amicably, and then Marissa stood, her wings folded down and posture casual.

"Please forgive the sudden intrusion, but you know how time can seem of the essence in a crowd." The Lady apologized with a short bow of her head.

"Ah-- no worries. I've honestly very little to prepare before curtain call." For all that her voice had been a powerhouse on stage, it was mild and low-pitched off it. She looked to Hollow, and offered a little smile in greeting.

"And you must be her majesty's eldest."

"Indeed. Hollow, love, I would like you to meet Marissa. I am certain your reputations have already preceded you among one another."

Hollow bowed, erring on the side of formality.

"Oh, certainly everyone's heard of the _Princeling_. Just as polite as they say, I see. It's a pleasure. ...Aw, and who's this?" She peered around the Lady, where Hornet was hiding behind her gown, clutching it somewhat. Peculiarly, the child shied back. 

"My other attending guest would be the esteemed Princess of Deepnest," the Queen introduced her fondly, gesturing her forward with a softer tone. "Hornet, come and say hello."

Marissa bent down somewhat closer to her level, and offered a faux curtsey to the child. 

"It's an honor to meet you."

Hornet, still caught by this uncharacteristic bout of shyness, only fiddled with the fabric in her grip.

"...Hi. Your wings are pretty. And I like your song."

Aww. 

"Oh, well, thank you _very_ much! Children aren't common at all in this place, you know. So your rank of my skill is a true compliment," she smiled, full and genuine for probably the first time Hollow had seen from the actress. The Queen, though, seemed slightly abashed.

"... Yes. I admit, I had not considered how the time frame and general principles of the opera might not be... within the realm of appropriateness, for one so small," their mother admitted, much to Marissa's politely muted bemusement.

"I should say so, your majesty," she offered apologetically. 

"Thankfully, I do believe we have already caught the important parts. My stepdaughter's assessment of your talent is more than warranted."

"Thank you. It was a much smaller role than I'd normally take, but I owed the composer a favor. What did you think of the show itself, by the way?" 

"I have already spoken what opinion I shall give. You played beautifully."

Marissa smirked at her deflection, not pressing the matter. She looked at Hollow, instead.

"Alright, and what did _you_ think of the opera as a whole, truthfully?"

Art was one of those things that expected an opinion, or the effort of interpretation, for something that did not change it one way or the other. To boot, both of those were supposed to be formed naturally, and Hollow still struggled with that. Like their mother and sister, they supposed they had admired _Marissa's_ performance. But of everything else? 

They forced themself to answer without taking too long to think, and went with the first expression that came to mind. A sort of vague hand wiggle.

Their mother hid a smile. Marissa laughed openly.

"Thank you for your honesty, your highness. It's genuinely refreshing."

"They have always been astute, truly."

Hollow felt like hiding too then, just a little.

"Well, if your night has been freed up, my wife and I were actually going to go into the city to dine out. She should be waiting in the lobby, would you all like to join us?"

"Have you enough time for that before the show's end?" The Lady asked with concern. 

"I can assure you that a five-act opera is more than enough time for a nice dinner, my Queen." Marissa spoke earnestly. Hollow had no idea how they never considered until _now_ how either of their parents might struggle at least a little with the concept of time, in the way that their subjects experienced it. 

"How generous. Hollow, would you be amenable to the change of plans?" Their mother looked at them. They made their agreement known. It was a mechanical reaction entirely, but luckily it was inline with their true opinion this time around. 

"Wonderful. What about you, Hornet?"

The girl seemed by far less timid than she had the last time she was addressed. She shrugged.

"Okay."

"We'd love to, then," the Lady affirmed more courteously.

Marissa seemed delighted, and she and the Lady led the way out. Hollow followed behind, picking Hornet up along the way for the walk. They noticed she had something of a sour air about her. They held her out a bit to regard her, questioning.

"... She's _married_ ," the child pouted quietly.

_Aww_.


	9. What makes you so special?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: the one where she finds out about the uh, baby pile

It had been Hollow's story to tell. They had not particularly wanted to tell it yet, but they suspected a few things had made it necessary. 

For one, their perceptive little sister had started to really notice things, and questioned much. She had asked around about the Black Egg Temple when she found it, abandoned and glowing with its strange runes. The King's unsuccessful attempts to destroy the place marked it as something to be reviled by the townsfolk above, and so that'd been one mystery for her to poke around in. 

Upon further investigation, she found the early carvings of what would have been a seal within the temple. The likeness it depicted was instantly familiar.

And at some point, she'd studied the kingsmoulds and wingsmoulds, against their father's wishes. She'd noticed that if destroyed, the ichor within would always seem to dissolve into the floor, as if compelled to return to something at the center of the world as quickly as it could. 

She also noticed that Hollow's own tears and blood shared its specific qualities, on the occasion either would spill.

And she had definitely noticed the way Hollow's mother and father would sometimes look at them with such sadness, on the bad days. Beyond that, she'd certainly already had her preconceptions on why children like her and them were born at all. Hornet had been born to fulfill a bargain, and then a role in her kingdom. Hollow had been born for a similar reason, though not the same. Their presence in the palace without any status as heir seemed to confuse her. 

It was rather sad, they thought, how likely it was that she did not ever consider that they might have simply been born out of love, even if it wasn't true. They both knew objectively that some children were born simply because some people wanted to be parents. But Hornet and Hollow did not belong to the caste that generally expected those sorts of children, and the Pale King, the White Lady, and Herrah were all beings far too  _ clever _ to make any life altering choices out of love alone.

Even if love alone seemed like a far more preferable pretense for bringing a child into the world than any other that Hollow knew of.

But at any rate, Hollow would mostly pin the fact that they had to have this conversation with their sister  _ now _ on a previous conversation they had some years ago, in the very first few months she'd spent partially living at the palace. Her hatchday had been coming up. 

She had been so very excited. The spiderling had run about proclaiming her upcoming age to anyone in her line of sight, and had counted down the days. At one point, she'd asked Hollow when their own hatchday would be.

Hollow had been forced to admit that they did not know their own date of birth. This information had  _ outraged _ the little thing, who all but dragged them by the cloak to go demand their father tell them both when Hollow had been born, as if he'd just been hoarding the information in secret to keep everyone from celebrating.

But the Pale King had not known, either. At further demands, he tried to relent on an approximate season. He put their hatch date at somewhere in mid-winter, for all he could remember for sure was that at the time, it had been very cold. 

Hollow was not offended by this. They knew the circumstances, and even without everything that made their hatch date too morbid to celebrate, it was impossible to say whether they'd escaped the egg and ascended the abyss on the same day. There had been thousands of bone shards and head casings to dig through, before they could even take their first breath. 

And even beyond logistics, they knew their father. The first thing he'd done after retrieving them from the abyss was seal it away forever. He wanted nothing more than to forget that time, and forget what he'd done. The circumstances of Hollow's birth were nothing to celebrate. They ought to be mourned. They still were.

Hollow could not be upset that their father would not remember the date. That would be foolish. They didn’t even want to remember either. It'd be irrational. They couldn't be upset. 

In apology, the King had offered to allow the children to pick a date they could all officially call Hollow's hatchday, so they could all properly celebrate when that day came. Hornet had been ready to accept this, but Hollow had stopped. They kept to the spot, and only noticed they had shaken their head after the action was finished. The King had stared at them, equally silent, and undeniably thrown by their display. They had not yet been very practiced at acting out of turn in front of him, by that point. 

Hollow had then raised their arm, and pointed at their father. It later felt just as unbidden as the first action had, but it said what was needed. He would pick. He was their father. It was never up to a child to choose when they were born, or where, or why. That was not their responsibility. He had to pick.

And so the Pale King had chosen a day in early spring, one that would come after the year's chill was done, when all the little life around the kingdom promised to soon bloom. 

(Hollow had written their father a note that year, thanking him for the first hatchday gift he'd ever given them, and that they'd ever received. Even if calling it such meant they had to follow a bit of recursive logic.)

So it shouldn't have come as too much of a surprise to receive a letter from their sister, once the soil began to thaw for the year. It was almost that time again. She was boarding at the Hive this season, and would write to both her homes with some frequency. 

Hollow would not lie and say they did not dread responding, but they wouldn't let a message go unanswered. Their baby sister confided in them. She trusted them, and they knew that she would have rather asked her questions in person, and in private. But this was often the easiest and most direct line of communication the two had, and came with the added bonus of no one feeling quite so watched as they often might in the White Palace, or in the City of Tears. Palace couriers were hired almost exclusively for their discretion and loyalty. Writing allowed them both time to make drafts, and choose their words carefully. Really, there were lots of little reasons why asking difficult questions this way was practical.

That didn't mean they had to like it. They re-read her latest letter again.

* * *

_ Hollow, _

_ The hivelings are getting noisier every day. Vespa tells me the activity means spring is near.  _

_ So then, your hatchday is also coming soon. I would ask what you want, but that would be a moot point for me. All I can offer is some more of the artisan candy I have access to here, but I am sure you won't complain. _

_ On that note, I have been thinking, specifically, about the things that I am sure of about you. This is because there aren't relatively many. You and I could meet anyone we'd like, and know their circumstances instantly if we asked.  _

_ I've never asked you, though. It seemed silly, because you are my sibling, and so it should be logical to me where you came from.  _

_ But that isn't the case. No sibling, I think, has ever had to learn that the other was never told their hatchday. And even if half-siblings do not always meet right away, I do not think it is normal to learn about having one with some tall-tale about that half-sibling having been locked away in a tower like a storybook damsel, like  that was the easiest way to explain where you'd been.  _

_ I had always known that a lot of things about you aren't common, but it's only recently that I'm realizing how little of what I  do know about you makes any sense at all. Father has mentioned that you're not only different from me, but you're different from both of your parents.  _

_ Father also says you're "under no obligation to explain your circumstances." I do not know if he was being weird and cryptic on purpose, or just the normal amount. But if your "circumstances" are some secret, I suppose he's right.  _

_ However, I am also under no obligation to bring back any Hive candy. Mother would be more than happy to help me look for a different hatchday gift for you. _

_ So, what is it that's so special about you? I know you have something to do with the sea at the bottom of the world. I remember you once showed it to me. I asked around at school, and it seems like you're the only person in Hallownest who even knows that place exists.  _

_ Love, _

_ Hornet _

* * *

She's still so young, Hollow thinks. They picked up a pen, and for once, only drafted a single time.

* * *

_ Little sister, _

_ I am going to tell you a story.  _

_ Once upon a time, there was a king. He was very unique, but also very new at his job. There was someone in power before him, but her subjects were easy to sway to his loyalty.  _

_ That old ruler was another being like him, also unique. She saw him as a usurper, and she was angry. I think she was right to be. But she did terrible things to her traitor subjects that were not right, no matter how angry she was.  _

_ In her anger, she made everyone very very sick. It was not a sickness people recovered from. It infected them from inside of their dreams, and then killed them. And after it did, it would not let them be at rest. It awoke them again with orange eyes, and made them feel her anger for themselves. _

_ The new king was at his job for a while, until he was no longer new at it. He built a shining city, wedded a shining queen, and established a shining reign, but maybe not all in that order. _

_ Eventually, he had enough subjects that people found relics of the old ruler, and some began to remember her, and worship her. And that gave her just enough power to make his whole kingdom sick. _

_ The king sat back and watched everything die for a very long time. He tried many things to push her back, but nothing worked. Eventually, he made the choice to contain her. The sickness in their dreams  was her, and so the king realized that something that could not dream would be a perfect vessel for her. _

_ Things with minds are things that dream. But there were no creatures in all the kingdom that didn't have at least some kind of mind that could know pain, and fear, and sleep. And so, the king thought to make some. _

_ The king went to the very bottom of the world, where only the shadows lived. He took some of them with him, and began to mold them into the proper shapes to be used for his purposes.  _

_ It worked a little. These beings moved like they lived, and had no minds or souls. But now the problem was that they were not strong enough to hold her, nor stable enough to last forever. _

_ He could not make a being like this out of the shadows, but he could use it. Soul is a form of light. Shadows blot out light, and leave nothing. The king saw potential in that. Beings like the king were meant to last forever. If a being like him could be emptied, have everything inside it hollowed out by the shadows, then it would be the perfect vessel. No mind for her to exploit, or will for her to break, or voice she could take to scream out her suffering.  _

_ To drain something that already lived of its soul and mind would eventually just kill it outright. And so the king needed to create something that could be  born without any of those things, and sustain itself without for the rest of its facsimile of life.  _

_ The king loved his subjects very much. They were, ironically, like his own children, in the way that gods see their worshipers as their own responsibility. He'd given them their souls, felt their pain, and watched them propagate his kingdom and love him in turn. He could not stand to see their suffering and eventual extinction. His subjects already lived, and already mattered.  _

_ So the hypothetical new beings, who were of him and therefore only  extensions of him, and would never even have to suffer souls of their own anyway, would be an easy trade to make in theory. The king and his queen would spawn clutches of eggs and drain them in the void sea before they could bear anything resembling real life, and the purest and most hollow of the things born would be used to seal away the Old Light. _

_ As far as the king could tell, his plan worked. He could sense no soul or mind beyond the coating of shadow upon the carapace of the one who'd climbed out from the abyss. He raised and trained that one to prime form so it could eventually fulfil its duty to seal away the Old Light, and end the plague for good.  _

_ That is where I came from. I apologize if the story got confusing, or if I was inconsistent with names. But you are clever, and I grew tired of placeholders. I am not a very good storyteller, and you know how I prefer to explain things simply. But some things are difficult to find simplicity in, when they're about oneself. _

_ Please understand. Things were dire, and I was not meant to be what I am, but I am grateful for what I turned out to be. I am grateful for how the both of us now get to live. Our parents love us both very much, no matter how it was  supposed to be for either of us. I promise.  _

_ With love,  _

_ Hollow _

* * *

_ Hollow, _

_ I'm coming back to the palace early, and I'm bringing the candy. _

_ Hornet _

* * *

Hornet did her own research, after that. She asked questions of the Dreamers. She'd known, somewhat, that they were meant to be blood sacrifices to end the Infection. She hadn't bothered to look beyond that, having chalked their old fates off as irrelevant and barbaric choices made by the old and desperate. But she supposed her mother deserved more credit than that. As did a mind like Monomon, and even the Watcher. 

She asked Herrah, first, about what was true. Her mother handled the subject with sensitivity, though she did not meander. She, and Teacher, and the Watcher all would have served as Hollow's  _ jailers _ , from directly within the dream realm. She even showed Hornet the grimoires which contained the blueprints of the original seals the Weavers had drawn up to make this possible. This was magic beyond anything Hornet knew how to weave. It was magic beyond what should have been possible. The complexity of the seals made them feel less like spells, and more like the ritual summonings in myth used to call upon gods. She supposed this was close, except they had been meant to instead  _ imprison _ a god. 

Hornet looked at her mother, and would come to understand that her life was supposed to have come at the cost of two so important to her. It hadn't. But it was supposed to. She always somewhat knew that, but it was undeniable now, even in the face of how her mother insisted that life was supposed to have been a gift to Hornet.

And on that note, how horribly rude of her to have wondered why Hollow existed, when much of her own purpose had been rendered obsolete by luck just like theirs. Maybe it would have been better not to know.

But she did know now, and she knew more things. Hollow had implied that they had been one of many siblings. Where were they?

She went to Monomon for those answers. A woman of science who'd been so close might be able to better explain what had happened, and what the "Vessel Initiative" was in a technical sense. Quirrel-- one of Monomon's more competent assistants, but still a bit too prone to daydreaming for Hornet's taste-- greeted her at the door. She had been direct about her desire to learn more about the "vessels". Quirrel's cheerful demeanor was instantly lost, and he went quiet.

Out of respect for her position, he'd allowed her to go see Monomon. But he made it a point not to promise that she'd find anything too specific about "that time." She'd asked why; this was an archive, after all, and she was an archivist. Preserving information was her job. He'd agreed that it was, and that Monomon's job was profoundly important to her.

That spoke volumes, then, of the  _ amount _ of sacrificed children it took to compel Monomon to have most of the records burned. Hornet learned enough after a short conversation with her. She had always been a very good teacher, who could explain exactly what was important succinctly and memorably. She put the number in the thousands.  _ Thousands.  _ Every new thing Hornet learned about the past made it sound as much like a horrific fairy tale as Hollow had tried to liken it. This couldn't possibly be real.

Her curiosity got the better of her, and she went back to that place at the bottom of the world. It was still sealed from its entrance in Hallownest, but the secret tunnel leading in from Deepnest was still clear. 

She had been warned of this place, but still tried to climb down. She made it a good few feet before the air there seemed to frost her lungs and sap the strength from her limbs. Her pulse had sped with a burst of adrenaline in some instinct to survive, and so she used it to hurry back up without hesitation. She hadn't been able to see very far below. Maybe that was a mercy, if everything she heard had been true. 

She took a shortcut back home through the old Nosk nest. The one living down here had died of unnatural causes years ago, its carapace long since decomposed to dirtcarvers feeding their young. She could sense no danger here. 

But the bundles of its webbing, still preserved, compelled her to stop. There were so many down here. It apparently once had plenty to eat, even with the spiders so wary of its tricks, and with how the deeplings should have been scarce in its lifetime with the Infection.

Hornet stopped in front of one hovering a few feet above her, and flung her nail through the strands that bound it to the ceiling. It fell, and the stale webbing cracked open upon impact. 

What tumbled out was an empty mask and some vestigial winglike offshoots resembling a cloak, both child sized. Four little horns, and empty eye holes that should not have seemed even remotely familiar. She jumped back as though she'd seen a ghost. 

Similar little creatures were housed in every other web casing she tore open. She did not continue after the fifth. That one had had two large horns, notched at intervals down their insides, and Hornet fled. 

* * *

The Pale King was waiting for her at the palace gates. He did not greet her. She did not greet him. He only beckoned her to follow him inside. Hornet stood her ground. The idea of following this man anywhere, right then, clashed with some familiar lesson that now compelled her to fear for her life. One mustn't trust a monster.

He saw how she did not move, and lowered his hand back into his robes. He always covered himself, was always unfittingly austere for a king when he could help it. Hornet once thought he was just often cold. She now suspected she was right, but that there was more to it. 

"You have questions," He finally uttered, quiet.

"...I  _ did _ ."

"You still do."

"I came to see  _ Hollow." _ Her voice rang clear.

He watched her. He looked like he wanted to speak. Perhaps to mitigate whatever damage he perceived there to be, or we whatever disaster he expected to come because he knew that she  _ knew _ .

But she would not give him anything. If she had learned a little younger, she might have screamed at him, and accused him of things.

But now, she finally understood that she did not _know_ anything about him. It was true that she wasn't yet grown, but she was a Princess, and so would be a strategic leader for her realm. If a leader perceives an enemy, and especially if that enemy is another leader, she does not give him anything about herself to work with unless it'd be to her advantage. She plans, and gathers her own information, and gets the upper hand. She avoids unnecessary conflict, and only picks battles she can win.

The staredown continued. Maybe he was thinking the same things. She had no reason not to believe he wasn't sizing her up. He  _ only _ did things for his realm, Hollow had made that clear. She could be just as expendable as they were. Moreso, really. She was a bastard to these lands he held so important. She was _of_ him, and things he only saw as  _ extensions _ of himself were only born out of necessity, and he'd already extinguished thousands like her. Filicide was nothing to a god. Nothing was important to a god but  _ worship _ . The Old Light was dead for it. This Palace was built for it. Hollow was a puppet for it. Why do they stay? Why do they play the good child for the entertainment of monsters?

He reached out for her. Her hand moved to her blade. Both froze. 

"Do  _ not _ touch me."

He lowered his hand. 

"... Your sibling is in their room."

She took a wide berth around him and went inside, carefully avoiding having to look at his face. 

On her way to their room, she caught sight of her stepmother down the hall. She deployed her needle on silk to avoid catching her eye, and took a detour.

* * *

Hollow would not hear her. She wanted to get them out of here, she had plenty of power to grant them asylum in Deepnest, (she didn't, but her mother did, but they could work that out later,) but they would not  _ listen. _

"Do you  _ know _ how many of our siblings are down there?"

A patient nod.

"I don't think you  _ do _ . I found some in a Nosk lair. The ones who tried to escape. Your parents let them  _ die. _ Any one of them could have been you."

They fussed with their hands on her face, rubbing and soothing. She was probably covered in dirt. They shook their head. 

"Why do you let them keep you here? Do you really think they care? We weren't born for them to care. You're a kingsmould to them, and I was only born so  _ he _ could take mother away. He's a  _ monster _ , both--"

They crushed her to their chest in a hug before she could keep going. They held her tight and protective, now seated on the floor, and rocked a bit like they were comforting her. She did not come here to be comforted, she came here to show them  _ sense. _

"Hollow, stop-- we have to  _ go-- _ "

They did not relent.

"Aren't you angry? How do you not  _ hate _ them?! You didn't deserve--"

They sort of tucked her under their chin, and she had little chance of escape. She could hear how they breathed, and how they were clearly now measuring it. She waited a second, and found herself following their lead, taking a breath. This information was new to her, but it wasn’t for them. They clearly made their choice. It  _ must _ have been theirs. 

"Fine. Okay. But you can't stop me from being angry at them on your behalf." 

(They could also not stop her from, maybe, being afraid of them.)

She felt their shoulders shake. Empty things didn't laugh. She wondered if on the days they couldn't, it was because they forgot that they weren't.

She remembered the candy, and procured it.

"... Happy early hatchday."

Another weak laugh, and then the ticklish feeling of fond chelicerae on her horn.

"Quit it, you're welcome."

She would stay the day with Hollow before deciding to return to the Hive. It was for the best that she'd given them their present early. Hornet would not attend the celebration this year, and she would not write her mother quite so much this season. There was a bit too much to process.

She came to enjoy training even more, and Vespa would report to Herrah how she'd even begun getting along better with the hivelings and knights. 

Herrah had been glad to hear it. It was good for her daughter to have somewhere she felt she could get away. Even if, sometimes, it had to be from her. 

Hornet would agree to go back to the palace some time later that year. But it would be many years before the King and Queen of Hallownest would ever receive another letter from her again. 

In the end, the re-fracturing of their little family was a quiet thing, wrought by old consequences of ostensibly loud actions. Its healing would also be a quiet thing, but also only ostensibly. Sometimes, everyone would  _ efficiently _ be reminded of how no one involved here was a particularly quiet being, in the big-picture sense. Such is the way of noble blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this series wasnt supposed to have anything resembling an arc but it looks like it might. oop


	10. The Beast and the Jester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her first intrusion on his realm, his first intrusion on her's, and their first shared intrusion on another's. 
> 
> The slightly off-beat courting of a different set of rulers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suturing together some rqs from anons has been the weirdest way ive ever constructed a narrative

** I. **

The Nightmare King was like no god Herrah knew of. It was her understanding that when most gods wanted to expand some influence from their base of power, they sent shamans and missionaries and the like out into the world on their behalf. Grimm, however, had apparently chosen to just pack up his realm like luggage and take it with him.

At the very least, all that traveling gave him plenty of good stories.

He’d seen many civilizations, and for every single one he could name, he could recall exactly how it fell. As a ruler herself, the idea of knowing where so many governments went wrong and collapsed sounded like a foolish opportunity to pass up. 

In practice, though, Grimm was a performer, not a sociologist. He spoke with the goal to be entertaining first and foremost, though Herrah could not tell if it was _her_ that he was trying to amuse, or just himself. He spoke of ruinous revolutions, despondent despots, and headless heroes. He spoke of kings and witches and soldiers and rakes and so on and so forth. It seemed as though he’d seen it all.

And through all his dramatic elucidations, he maintained a veneer of propriety with her that fit just a bit crooked on him, though it wasn’t awkward or forced. If anything, he seemed to _relish_ in manners and courtesy, like the Root did. But unlike the Root, Herrah suspected he enjoyed etiquette as though it were a silly game. A monster play-acting a gentleman. Or a clown play-acting a king. 

Or perhaps he was just somewhat mad. It was difficult to tell on his turf, backstage of the grand big-top where she now joined him for tea. She provided the tea leaves. He provided everything else, most importantly the ambiance. The decor here was somewhat kitschy for her taste, but she thought it had a rather lovely color scheme. Herrah had always been fond of red. 

As he spoke, Grimm’s voice only carried until it was swallowed up by all the heavy velvet lining the walls.

“There was another queen of spiders. There were many queens of many spiders, of course. But, there was one in particular many centuries ago, who was as unlike you as she could have possibly been, though I promise she meant you no personal offense by it. Her web less a nest, and more a vast array of interconnected towers that stretched into the sky as far as one could see, all sharing an interlocking network of silk between them that cast hatch-work shadows on the ground below.”

“A system of transportation?” Herrah asked.

“A system of _nets_. No transportation necessary when your home catches your food for you.” He looked off at some random point in the room’s ceiling, head tilted while he recalled his tale. “ ‘Twas an abrupt, choking terror that permeated the sky there.”

“It just sounds sort of unsustainable, to me.” She took a sip. He grinned.

“Oh my, yes.”

“Did they manage to adapt, then, once all the critters wisened up enough not to fly into that kingdom at all?”

“Oh my, no.”

Herrah waited patiently for the smiling bastard to play out his dramatic pause to his eventual satisfaction. He didn’t keep her waiting long.

“Once the food stopped coming, they simply ate themselves out of house, home, and tower. It really hadn’t taken long, even for such a large population.”

“And the Queen?”

“Among the last to be eaten. She’d spearheaded much of the carnage herself. Her palace was a veritable lump and tangle of silk and slaughter, even eons later.”

Herrah tried to imagine it. She found that it was somehow not all that hard. Dust and fragments of silk glittering through now shapeless windows that lined rubbery, spiraling towers whose details had long fallen to wind erosion. Foul cauldrons sitting in the center of a putrid palace kitchen, surrounded by a small mountain of crumbling exoskeletons long since picked clean of any meat. She could chalk all of this up to a well-functioning imagination. 

The faint smell of dust and rot wafting from her tea, though, she could not. 

She leveled him with a mild look. “You can try to unsettle me all you want, but leave the tea out of it. It’s a good blend.”

He cocked his head, all scarlet eyes and faux innocence.

“It really is,” was all he said.

Herrah briefly turned the story over in her mind. Once she was done, she tutted.

“Even for all the carnage, that was an anticlimactic way for them to go, if only for how _predictable_ it was. Keeping an eye on food supply and population growth is fundamental stuff.”

Grimm chuckled. …She thinks. The sound could have also been raspy, rather polite choking.

“Precious few civilizations have the courtesy to die spectacularly.”

“We should all be so lucky,” she more or less joked. “How many unique places do you think you’ve seen, by your estimate?”

“Only a fraction of the amount of unique societies,” he deflected, giving Herrah the distinct sense that he had no real idea of any approximate number. “Different peoples and rulers and would-be gods tend to reuse and repopulate a space ad-nauseum.”

He hummed tunelessly, then, fingers flexing on his teacup handle. “Children are born, wars are fought, factories churn, but a rock is a rock.”

“The _planet_?” Herrah questioned, with some amusement. 

“A very very _adaptable_ rock.”

“You’re a profoundly strange god.”

“Am I?” He asked in turn with thinly suppressed glee, like he was in on some joke. 

“Most others tend to find some bit of this rock that they like and _cling_ to it, don’t they?”

Another hum, brief and pleasant. “A wyrm is comfortable when nestled in his burrow. A tree is bound to the soil where she takes root. And a slug dozes indefinitely under the damp. This place attracts a lovely assortment of utterly _sedentary_ breeds of gods.”

Herrah aborted her laugh with a rather undignified snort. Grimm continued to sit straight and regal, his own vaguely unhinged grin mostly concealed behind the ruff of his cloak. 

“And what of you, dearest Spider Queen?”

“ 'Beg pardon?”

“As a monarch with the dear Wyrm at your doorstep, do _you_ not chase some dream of perpetuity?” He seemed genuinely interested. It nearly caught her off guard.

“Not so much. I seek for my kingdom to thrive under me, and under my daughter. Beyond that is something of a mystery.”

“Ahhh. That is not a bad way to live.”

“In the present?”

“Thriving. While you can.”

“And would you say _you_ do, while living 'on the road’, so to speak?” She redirected the conversation back off her, and onto him. Maybe it wasn’t subtle, but this one didn’t appear to particularly _do_ subtlety, which made things easy.

He did appear to have to think about that, though not for very long. “I am content. The Heart dictates, and the ritual is complete, and I persist.” He sort of swirled his tea around in his cup. The steam drifting from it suggested it was still boiling, though Herrah’s had long since cooled.

“So your 'Heart’ speaks to you, then?" 

"Doesn’t yours?" 

He watched her, nearly gloating. She couldn’t keep down a smile, at that.

"Fair enough. I think I’ll find no enemy in a being that’s only just listening to his heart.”

He eyed her, curious and mirthful. “Is _that_ why you’ve met me here? To ascertain another possible threat?”

Some curious little creatures bearing circus garb flitted about far above and behind, watching her. Herrah paid them no mind. 

“That would be prudent. But one could send out any little spy or soldier to collect that kind of information.”

“That would be safer,” he agreed, waiting for her to go on. She finished off her drink, unhurried. 

“On my account, I correctly believed a visit would prove entertaining. What other type of professional could make a better host, in theory, than a dedicated performer?”

That seemed to please him very much, and he did little to hide it. The little watchers scurried back off into the shadows at his smile. 

“You call me a strange god, but I wonder if I might find _you_ a strange Queen. No manic dreams of your own for seeking out eternity and glory, though you nearly died for another’s; a neighbor’s.”

Herrah took care not to let her surprise show. She supposed all gods ought to be expected to be somewhat invasive in each other’s business.

“The bargain made was fair. One life for another, and one so dear to me, at that. I ended up getting very lucky, but if all had gone to plan, I wouldn’t have regretted a single thing.” As she spoke, he seemed to lose some of his prior enthusiasm, now only looking to enjoy his tea and listen to her speak as basic politeness dictated. She rankled somewhat, at this. 

“Hm. I understand it may seem insignificant to the eyes of a being apparently so ancient, but it was the most important choice to my _own_ heart I’ve ever made. I love her dearly, and I wanted her to inherit a living world." 

That snapped him to attention, though he was careful with his tea.

"Your daughter,” he seemed to realize, newly rapt as he watched her. What a strange reaction.

“That’s right.”

“The Queen was to dream, so the Princess may live among the waking,” he spoke thoughtfully, clearly to himself, while a claw clinked against the rim of his cup.

“My apologies if _that_ is what you find me strange for,” she deadpanned. He blinked up.

“Oh no, no, not at all! I daresay it may be the only thing anyone in this place has said to me, so far, that has made any sense at all,” he examined her with some newfound interest. Respect, maybe. Though that was admittedly a nice theory, she wouldn’t yet assume anything.

“Is that right?” She asked.

“You’ve seen firsthand what refusal to accept change can do to a being, and what it can make a being do to others. And Hallownest seems to attract their like. I do hope you’re not too much of an oddity here, for how selflessly you love your family and your people.”

Herrah was definitely no stranger to all forms of flattery, revered Queen and Beast as she was. Quiet, open sincerity from a being that existed to be frightening, though, was apparently enough to faze her for a second.

“…Thank you. But it’s not so strange these days that Hallownest and its neighbors consider the future. I’m still not sure about the Wyrm, but it’s no concern of mine so long as he stays in his lane." 

That pulled a single bark of laughter from him, though he quickly regained composure. 

"Superb. And here I thought some,” he looked off at the tent ceiling again for a second, searching for the words, “…long-standing _fondness_ between you two.”

He couldn’t see the way her face scrunched in displeasure under her mask, but her feelings came through just fine in her voice. “I _tolerate_ him, for my daughter’s sake. He’s a _deeply_ unprepared father, but he is… trying." 

Herrah certainly hoped so, at least. She has yet to hear of any _monumental_ fuckup with his daughter from anyone, so far. 

"Though I’ll admit to my fondness for his wife. If only because _she’s_ good fun to talk to, and because she helps keep the little cur in line." 

"The Root of Life?”

“You have her rather extensive collection to thank for the tea today. She gifts it liberally.”

He looked down at his cup, considering, and tapping again.

“Does she, now?”

Herrah watched him. It was proving a common occurrence in their conversations that she all of a sudden couldn’t read him. For all his performative exaggerations, he seemed to keep anything that _mattered_ close to his chest. The sort of natural predator that distracted with bright colors, either in warning or mimicry. 

“That’s right.”

“Ah. You and her, then?”

It took Herrah a moment. Then she laughed openly, slightly appalled. Grimm blinked at her in open shock.

“Oh– that’s certainly not the sort of joke appropriate for… well, I can’t actually imagine _most_ would tolerate it. No, _no_. Gods or not, those two are very _devoutly_ committed to each other alone.” She did take half a second to think. “I’d say maybe in another lifetime, but honestly, I’m not entirely convinced she could handle… well, me.”

He bit down a laugh, eyes shining, and leaned forward. “What does _that_ mean? A goddess, unable to 'handle’–?”

“If my understanding of all the different kinds of gods has taught me anything, it’s that some of them aren’t at all that good at living life the way it ought to be." 

"And how, dearest Queen, is that?” She had his attention, but it was certainly satisfying that she clearly also had his amusement. That seemed like high praise from an entertainer. She leaned forward some, in turn.

“ _Vivaciously_ , King of Nightmare. We are _alive_. There’ll be plenty of time to be 'sedentary’ after that's done.”

A cavern full of echoing Weaver-song and the constant scurrying of active spiders was much preferable, in Herrah’s opinion, to a palace that was only ever filled with incessant quiet reverence. The capability for a full, vibrant life was exactly what she had wished for her daughter, and Herrah would have slept for eternity for the hope that one would have been promised to Hornet with the sealing of the infection, and preservation of the world.

The look on Grimm’s face seemed to suggest he agreed with her assertion. He reached out, and poured them both some more tea. 

The Root would have said such an act was presumptuous, if one didn’t know that the other party wished to continue conversation.

But Herrah knew that “presuming to do something” often got its wires crossed with “ _hoping_ to do something”. 

And it was good tea.

“Have you any more stories of kingdoms passed?” She asked, knowing damn well he did.

“Enough for a thousand lifetimes.” His delight was palpable. “Let me tell you of a realm once built upon sands so brilliantly _red_ , they produced glass structures that refracted all light like it was the hottest fire. The calamity of that city’s shattering was the loudest sound ever produced in this entire world, but by that point, not a single soul had been left to ever hear it,” he began, to her immediate fascination.

The Troupemaster would entertain the Queen for some time yet.

* * *

**II.**

The first time Deepnest received a specific band of visitors, it was an inconvenience. Those creepy circus tents were, for some reason, now prone to blink in and out of existence in random spots. And they kept setting themselves up sporadically around Deepnest and caused mayhem wherever they went. 

Now, the circus wasn’t technically _doing_ anything, per say, but Deepnest was a land full of dangerous creatures that Herrah’s people had spent generations delineating their territories safely away from. Needless to say, the sudden, frequent dis-and-reappearances of large, glowing structures was upsetting the garpedes. And the garpedes, in turn, were beginning to upset everything else. And if the tremors brought about by their disturbed burrowing caused the _nosks_ to migrate up, then everyone would have a real problem. Already the spiders were in a near constant scramble of affixing reinforcements to the tunnels and ceilings with silk and stone, lest there be a series of cave-ins. 

Herrah had first sent her Devout to try and deal with the root of the problem. They’d all come back in one of three states. One: frustrated for being completely unable to track their quarry down. For every report on where the tents _had_ been, no matter how recent, they’d said, had turned up nothing. 

Or two: Lightly charred, and complaining having been harassed away from their duties by these little floating, chittering creatures that liked to pelt them with solid flame, like children hucking snowballs at a target. No one was really injured beyond a few seared plates, so evidently it’d been the creatures’ unshakeable persistence in pissing everyone off enough to _give chase_ that hindered her faithful soldiers. 

Or three: Quivering and gaunt, and with a terrified report that the circus was not a thing to be toyed with, for that way promised only unspeakable horrors to be burned into one’s mind should they interfere with it. These were the ones that truly worried the Queen.

And then one night, Hornet woke up hiccupping about a nightmare, and had wriggled herself into her mother’s nest to be soothed back to sleep. 

It was _officially_ time for Herrah to take a day, and deal with the problem _herself_.

The circus appeared in the village that morning, practically at her doorstep. The residents around had already all but evacuated at their own discretion, and Herrah went inside. 

It was as she remembered. No random structural disappearance, no sudden pestering from the little nightmares, and the most frightening thing about the place in her opinion was the tacky patterning along the curtains. 

The musician– Brumm, she remembered– was a few paces into the entryway, playing a tune. She supposed she ought to start with him.

“Good morning.”

“Mrmm. Not in here.”

“Sure. Your Master is disrupting my land.” She decided to just get to the point, having the distinct feeling that no one else here would.

“He waits inside.”

“Is this a trap?” The question came out mild, but it was probably a rather important one.

“… That would depend on what you might consider a poor outcome for yourself, out of whatever happens tonight.”

“For the sake of simplicity, let’s go with any grievous maiming or death, on my end.” She spoke only a little dryly. 

“Mrm. Not a trap, then.”

“That is helpful, thank you." She sort of had a kingdom to get back to running, after all, so dying today really just wouldn’t _do_.

He nodded. Herrah had no way to know if he was telling the truth. Honestly, it’d be stupid to just trust his word; he was a creature bound by a place that could lie to _reality itself,_ no matter how polite he was. 

But that was what her greatneedle was for. So she headed for the big top, and found it a perfect expanse of empty ground. Her mind supplied associations with an arena, before the house lights clicked off, and a set of spotlights found center stage. In a plume of smoke, the Troupemaster appeared dead center, facing away. He looked for all the world like the narrating character of an annoyingly tragic play, about to turn towards the audience and set the stage with suitable drama. 

But he did not turn. Yet Herrah still got the sense she was being looked at. 

With an internal sigh, she waited for him to speak. He obviously had a whole _bit_ going on right now, and she sort of didn’t want to be a killjoy just yet.

"Queen Herrah of Deepnest. Welcome. It’s an honor to host a being of such high local esteem,” his voice was a careful rasp.

Okay, well, first of all she’s _been_ here before, secondly his damned tents were intruding on _her_ realm, and thirdly, if he was going to pretend propriety, the least he could do was face her. Herrah took a second to put together the best way to express some of these concerns without openly antagonizing the pointy nightmare god, whose current agenda she still wanted to understand.

“Thank you, but technically, _you_ would be _my_ guest, had you been invited.”

Brumm’s music started anew somewhere far behind them, but it was still inexplicably clear. Their conversation, apparently, would have ambiance.

“Semantics, your majesty,” the Troupemaster hummed. 

Herrah resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and tried not to sound too tired. "Grimm, _what_ are you doing in my kingdom?”

“Nothing. Why, do you think I should?”

“I’d hesitate to call all the mystical hopping-about ‘nothing’. In fact, it’s something of a disruption.”

He tilted his head back a little towards her, and finally she saw his eyes. “Well, setup _is_ all about location. I am nothing if not exacting in my art.”

Normally, she’d find that hard to believe. But he finally turned to face her, wings twirling in an easy flourish, and something was different from what she thought was normal.

“Pedantry and performance are nearly synonymous, fierce Queen. The lengths to which your average showman must go to earn his audience’s attention is so often _dreadfully_ underappreciated. Everyone on their mark, everything in its place. Of course, otherwise, there is… improvisation. And while that does carry a bit more risk, it can often be just as effective.”

The measured clip of his voice, the deliberate motions of his hands, and the utter stillness when neither was in use all gave off an air of practice. Every action had a reason. This talk in and of itself was some sort of performance, she realized. 

Herrah quickly resolved to not let herself be unnerved. The _Troupemaster_ spoke with grace and authority, sure. But she had seen the way _Grimm_ smiled behind his tea. 

“What’s your angle, here?”

And there was that smile. But not quite. Slow and practiced like the rest of him right then, shining red eyes perfectly unreadable while it suited him.

“A rehearsal, only. One mustn’t let their skills fall to rust, and so tonight I find myself in need of a dance partner.”

“Really.”

“Really. Would you care to assist me?” Those eyes were a bit brighter now, and pinned her for an answer. 

Was _that_ all he’d wanted? Just to show off on his little stage? No, there must be some ulterior motive; he’d clearly been waiting for _her_ specifically, and playing along with his dumb little games seemed the best way to navigate the situation in her favor, right now. Assess first, strike later.

“If I do, will you agree to quit with the… realm-jumping?" 

The grin turned wicked around the edges for a split second before he swept back on a leg, and bent into a proper scraping bow. Like this was the Root’s pretty ballroom.

"You have my word.”

Herrah had half a mind to bonk him on the head with the flat side of her needle while he was down. But she wasn’t about to let _him_ be the more civilized one here, and so just returned the gesture. 

And then he _struck_ , her only warning the approaching rush of wings and red. Her needle flashed in her parry, and she stared as his claws clanged against it in their brief contact. 

So much for _civility_. But, honestly? This was better.

The two clashed in what Herrah mistook as impromptu combat. But Grimm was fast, and every motion carried the same sense of perfected timing and deliberate fluidity. It _was_ , in a sense, a dance. And Herrah had to learn the steps quickly, lest those claws find purchase in her _throat_. 

But she was not called Beast for simple ceremony of her status. The Queen of Deepnest had earned every connotation her title held. Where he was fast, she was relentless. And she was strong. Years of ruling, politicking, and mothering had not made her forget the truth of that, nor would they ever. A beast was a crushing, snapping thing, and so feared for its relish of the hunt. Each spell woven, and crack of steel against chitin, and narrowly avoided wound instilled that same thrill, and neither foe made any misstep twice. 

It’d been so long since someone could _match_ her. Any threat to her power had long since been brutally cut down, for the stability of her claim. Those battles had been required, and not particularly fun. 

This, though, was. Moreso when she landed a blow that sent him skittering back (he never seemed to have the same amount of legs) or forced a rushed counter (eyes and shell and smoke all twisting together grotesquely), and she saw how his meticulous routine slipped away into something more wild and reactionary, as she made it necessary. 

“You perform passionately. But just how far can one get on raw talent alone?” He spoke up, after Herrah evaded a hail of flame from the ceiling.

“What I showcase here is _skill_ , Troupemaster. We shall find out the limits of _talent alone_ when _you_ finally go and get yourself impaled.”

Grimm feinted, rushed her from the side, and barely dodged the whipping burst of razor-silk she summoned to keep his next blow from landing. And then he laughed.

“Come now, I already told you about the effort we put in here. Give me a little credit." 

Her needle struck air when his form exploded away in smoke. 

"Did you? I don’t recall. How about you hold still, and tell me again?" 

He reappeared with a grin, claws at the ready. "Ah-ah.”

“'Worth a shot.”

She expected the next flare of fire, and he expected the next salvo of silk. His magic heated the air before it made itself visible, and her own sang on it. They made quite a little lightshow together, all that red crashing tidal against white. Even if Herrah hadn’t come with any intention of being part of the entertainment. Her blade’s edge hit hard shell, and he parried ferociously, fortunately only slashing away a bit of cloth veil instead of a bit of crucial exoskeleton. 

“The Heart thrums percussion for our recital. Can you hear it? Your fervor sets its tempo.” He sounded giddy. Invigorated. The worst part was she _understood_ , and so couldn’t scorn him for that.

“I do hope you can _fight_ while you soliloquize. That would be impressive. Or else it’d just end very well for me.” She returned instead.

“I haven’t a script prepared. Would you be just as impressed by improvisation?”

Swipe, parry, thrust.

“Oh, by all means, _impress_ me.”

“That is the– _goal_ , yes.”

He’d nearly been interrupted by a soul-silk binding around the wrist, but he quickly burned it off before he was done talking. Herrah got a good downward bash off on him afterward, though, in the diversion.

She nearly retorted with, 'And here I thought the goal was to kill me’. But inadvisable as it was, she paused. 

Brumm had basically told her she’d be in no danger. All Grimm’s earlier attacks had come with some sort of preamble that made them easy to learn, and _she_ had been the one to escalate things to the pace they were at now. If anyone was trying to _kill_ here, it was her. He was only keeping up, keeping in step. 

This might really _just_ be a dance. How a creature of despair and horror would orchestrate one on his own turf, but a dance nonetheless.

He took advantage of her moment out of focus, and lunged from the ground with a wing coiled and hardened into a wielded spike. She yelped in her haste to block it. Steel ground against _whatever the hell_ with heavy force, and both struggled in a moment’s contest of strength.

“How grand a display! It’s almost a shame we haven’t an audience.”

That was also rather odd, wasn’t it. “What, are all your little beasties too busy– _terrorizing_ the populace?” She hissed through the strain.

“No. I’ve just decided to be selfish with your company. Could you blame me for wanting something so _bewitching_ all to myself, for an evening?” He smiled through his own strain, and actually _winked_ , the pompous piece of–

Wait. Hold up. Wait. Context. Dancing, music, mood lighting. Color that with a dash of Clown-Fear-God sensibilities.

“…Are you trying to _seduce_ me?”

“Depends. Are you seducible?” He answered immediately. 

“That isn’t a word.”

“ _That_ isn’t a 'no’.” His voice warbled with effort, but needle’s edge at his throat and all, he was still clearly going for _coquettish_.

With a heave, she shoved him back across the stage. Both laboured a bit in their breathing.

“… You’re mad.”

He shrugged, and with a snap of his fingers, summoned spiraling pillars of fire from the ground below, and she sprinted between them on her way to lunge at him needlepoint first, with enough strength that her weapon cracked the stone below when she hit the now-smoking spot where he’d just been. 

“Your antics nearly sent the garpedes on a _rampage!_ My people are _terrified_. Did you maybe consider I might not _appreciate_ all that trouble?”

Grimm halted at once, claw listing down from where it’d been at the ready inches away behind her. Big, pretty, _infuriating_ eyes watching her cautiously. She benevolently refrained from running her blade through them.

“I’m only here because you made it _necessary_ for me to personally find you and put a stop to it. You’ve gone and made a nuisance of yourself– and for _what_ , to get my _attention?”_ Herrah demanded.

“… I thought perhaps you just couldn’t find the tents,” he intoned, openly lost.

She stared. That explained their current location right in front of her den. And a lot more.

“You. You could have sent a _note_.”

“… The circus… attracts the right people on its own, normally. I’ve never, ah, had to put in the effort.”

Herrah lifted the needle in three arms, and did finally bonk him on the head with it, flat side down.

“Your blasted Heart gave my daughter _nightmares_.”

He rubbed at the spot between his horns, and his eyes went wide. He looked… genuinely abhorred. 

“… _Oh_. I’ve… We’ve come too close. Children are the most susceptible to–” He straightened, and tucked his arms back away within his wings. “I apologize. Truly. We hadn’t meant to cause any distress.”

“Mhm, _right_. Then what of my Devout who’d come back looking like they’d freshly _shat themselves?_ ” She asked flatly.

“Ah, that one’s not on me. _They_ struck first, without mercy, at the very first person or thing they saw. I protect my own, same as you. The ones who didn’t come with violent intent, we left _alone_.”

The way he so openly bristled with his protectiveness, after all the theatrics and affectations, Herrah found it hard not to believe him. His expression then softened somewhat.

“You… you don’t have a lot of reason to trust anything I say as truth, but–”

“Save it. It’s fine. …Maybe not _fine_ , but I _am_ going to forgive you, if you truly meant no harm.”

Grimm stared in open shock. The thing was, Herrah actually had a number of reasons to believe that a being like him might get it so profoundly _wrong_ like this. 

After all, between the “No, dear, I know it’s a new trend, but five hours is absolutely too much time to count as fashionably late” White Lady, and the “Yes, you twit, that thing your daughter built out of wood blocks is utterly incomprehensible but you’re supposed to praise her anyway” Pale Wyrm, Herrah had maybe a bit more experience than the average spider in understanding how some things might be a bit… out of depth, let’s say, for creatures that exist outside the normal scope of time and culture. 

“But _only_ ,” she continued, “If you swear to pack your tents somewhere far from my realm, and to never again spread your influence to my _child_.” Her tone was the same one she used when passing judgement on perpetrators of things like murder and high treason. She found it was only just _acceptably_ threatening.

“You have my word,” he acquiesced immediately, a nearly distraught echo of the first time. “The Heart does not particularly relish the terrors of children, and I personally find them upsetting. As far as my _realm_ is concerned, those nightmares are… frail. Unfinished. All too easy to cultivate, but still only the _basis_ for what might feed us later, in the unfortunate event that they become engrained enough to grow _alongside_ a child.” He looked down for a second as if in thought, utter distaste visible in the set of his mouth. 

“…Theoretically filling en masse, but not particularly nourishing.”

“… What, so, like junk food?” How terribly morbid.

“More like unripened fruit. Technically edible, but… No, thank you." 

Herrah blinked, forcing her train of thought back on track. (And well, at least that was one thing she didn’t have to worry about from him, if he spoke the truth.) She sighed.

”… Alright. So, just… set yourself up somewhere you won’t cause inadvertent harm, don’t _burn anything down_ on the way out, and go learn some more _customary_ courtship practices. And then, I shall consider the hatchet buried,” she declared.

The Troupemaster stilled in blank bewilderment. Then his expression slowly brightened, in what Herrah couldn’t avoid understanding as a more _hopeful_ sort of bewilderment. And even when he tried to save face with a more informal half-bow, with one hand over where his heart would be, that stupid, happy little sawtooth-grin stayed. And all because she was choosing to give him half a chance.

It occurred to Herrah, just then, that she might actually be playing with fire. Pardon the pun.

“As you wish. …And please, pass on my apologies to your daughter, for the nightmares. If I had any say in the matter, she’d never have to suffer any again.”

“…Of course.”

Or to be more blunt, she might be kind of screwed.

-

Grimm did learn. The next week, Herrah received flowers. Their blooms were an almost unnatural shade of scarlet, but suffused through with splotches and swirls of bright white. They reminded her of heat and song. And they were absolutely bursting with harsh, gnarling trails of vicious thorns.

Oh, she was _definitely_ screwed. 

* * *

**III.**

A prominent member of some house of lords or another was celebrating an anniversary. The specifics weren’t important. The important parts were: One, she and her partner had been together so many years that they’d rented out a hall for this one, and put together a huge milestone party. 

And two, both had been acquainted with the Root long enough that _she_ had actually hosted the party where they’d _met_ , and so Hallownest’s queen was a guest of honor. Herrah had no idea what amount of years was being celebrated, or who these people _were_ , but the Root had been encouraged to invite along as many people as she could think of, and have them bring guests. So Herrah and the other ex-Dreamers were sent invitations, and many more would attend on the rumor that the Pale King himself was even planning on making a brief appearance.

The façade put on by the invitations and decor of the hall made it out to be one of those stuffy, hoity-toity cotillion sorts of things. But there would be no mistake that this was meant to be an absolutely raucous event. The couple hosting were so happy that they hadn’t a care in the world about any but the most basic practices of etiquette, and there was food and music to rival a surface-town festival. By the time Herrah arrived with her guest in tow, everyone had already been drinking like it was the end of the world. 

…Like it was the end of the world _again_.

She found the other ex-Dreamers in the crowd first. Monomon had waved her over. She was already pretty tall in the crowd, but had deemed it necessary to stick up a tendril or two and enthusiastically _ensure_ Herrah saw her waving. Lurien was tugging at her cloak, clearly imploring her to tone it down. 

Herrah immediately resigned herself to the evening. She nudged her guest at her side, and spoke just loud enough to be heard by him alone.

“Looks like I’ve already got some business.”

“As do I. Have fun; I know I will.”

Grimm had been looking out at a different point into the crowd, suspiciously close to where the ever-glowing Wyrm was suddenly disappearing into the throng away from view. Herrah grinned.

“Meet back by the fountain in an hour?”

In a swift motion, he kissed her hand. 

“ ’ _Though hell should bar the way._ ’ ”

“ _Ugh_. Off you go,” she scoffed, with no audible annoyance.

They parted, and she made her way over to the better inebriated members of (what was now essentially) the Dreamer Support Group, where her personal space was immediately accosted. Monomon in particular got right up in her face. She smelled of the kind of wine that may as well just be juice. 

“You brought a _date_ ,” she began.

“Were you simply going to sneak past?” Lurien had his arms crossed. 

“–and you didn’t _tell us!_ ” Monomon finished.

Herrah very gently pushed her friend by the face until she was an acceptable distance away.

“He’s not my date.”

The other two Dreamers paused, and then exploded in a clamor. Herrah caught the words _“Stagshit–”_ and “Oh, so when it’s _your_ guest–” before she brushed past them to pick out her first drink of the night off the platter of a passing waitstaff. 

“The Root asked me to bring a guest or two, and I brought whoever wouldn’t be bothered by all the damn light. That just so happened to be that one person,” she shrugged. 

The other two exchanged a _look_. She allowed her body language to give nothing away.

“You,” Lurien pointed at Herrah, “are _not_ allowed to make fun of anyone else for _their_ personal endeavors ever again.”

“When have I _ever_ made fun of anyone?”

He sputtered, and spent a second or two struggling to string together words in outrage. Hey, maybe this would be easy after all. 

“Lurien’s right. The _indomitable Beast Queen of the Deepnest,_ ” Monomon even fluttered her tentacles around for dramatic effect here, “does _not_ do anything because it ‘just so happened’ to be possible. And I highly doubt she just goes around passing invitations to whoever’s around. Why would she want to bring a hanger-on that would only just be a chore to keep track of? And one _alone_ , to a place where entering together might make a _statement_? Why, one might say it wouldn’t be worth it if she didn’t care a great deal for them, and perhaps, think that a statement _ought_ to be made.”

Or, the greatest mind in Hallownest (even 5 goblets of wine in) could actively decide _not_ to let her off easily.

“Speaking of, where’s _your_ hanger on?” Herrah deflected.

“Which one?”

“The Teacher invited along a small flock of graduate students. You’ll find their foremost hiding from the nobility within their numbers,” Lurien indicated at a small crowd by one of the punch fountains. Quirrel looked absolutely harried, but he waved amiably when he caught the Dreamers’ eyes. Herrah waved back. Monomon did so with unsteady cheer. The Watcher scoffed.

“Do _not_ try and detract from the subject. Since when do _you_ ever hide your intentions?” He challenged.

“Ooh, he’s right. The Queen has also never been _shy_ about declaring her loyalties.”

“Perhaps she is _ashamed_. Who is that bug, anyway? He certainly seems–”

“ _Alright_ , pipe down. Fine, it _is_ a date.”

Herrah silenced them both with a quick _“ksst!”_ before they could go off again, like she was repelling back a couple of particularly intrusive dirtcarvers. 

“But it is our _first_ , and I would like to keep any pressure off. So kindly keep the mandible-flapping about it between yourselves, alright?”

They exchanged another _look_ , and Herrah briefly debated tossing them both into the ancient basin. 

“Awfully lavish choice for a first date. Casual by _our_ Queen’s standards, but still.” The Teacher’s lilt was all faux-innocent curiosity.

“She means to _impress_ him, then. How sincere. Almost _sweet_.” The Watcher’s tone was bone dry.

“How about I take a page from that queen’s book and make you both _eat web?”_ The Beast gritted out, much to their amusement. 

Huh. So _this_ is what it felt like, on this end of things. 

-

“My lady.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Did you invite the Nightmare’s Vessel?”

“No, dear.”

“Ah. Pray, then, why is he here?”

“Alas, my Wyrm, you know I do not play host here, and so I could not tell you whether the ones who do might have invited him. I suppose it is possible that they are simply heretics.”

“He is coming this way.”

“Ahh, then I wish you all the best on your parlay, love.”

“Root–”

“ _Good evening_ , dear Wyrm! What are the odds I find you again, in your kingdom, at a party, twice in the same year? You know, being what I am, some might consider that an _omen_. Humorous, isn’t it? Simply _hilarious_. Oh, I see I’ve just missed your wife. Do pass on my regards.”

“I would rather perish.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“No. Though perhaps later, I might invite you to _try_.”

“Oh, we’ve _so much_ to catch up on! Do slow down, dearest _friend_. One mustn’t walk so briskly on the dance floor.”

-

“ _No_. You are not trying to convince me that that is the _Nightmare King–”_

_“Pfft_ – Voice down, Luri.”

_“I am the only one whispering!”_

So, Herrah’s friends took the news exactly as expected. That is, Monomon had suspected this was coming before _Herrah_ ever did, and Lurien was absolutely scandalized. The Queen thought she deserved at least a little credit for grabbing him a flute of champagne or three before she’d started taking questions.

“He is supposed to be a _myth_.”

“Watcher, your _actual patron god_ authorizes your _stipend_ ,” she pointed out.

“Hallownest is fascinating, isn’t it? The things these lands attract, and the life they brop– propogate,” Monomon sighed, practically deflated on Herrah’s shoulder. A waiter refilled the Teacher’s chalice behind her, and Herrah quietly took it before she could notice, miming a quick “cutting-off” gesture to them.

“…Exactly, Watcher. Cosmic beauty of the improbable, or whatever. So lighten up.” Herrah took a sip.

Lurien stared at her, flute in hand, somehow looking ready to explode even behind his vestments. 

“… If you have something to sa–”

“ _Stars above_ , woman, wasn’t bedding _one_ divine _enough?!”_

There was a beat of silence for about, oh, a good fifteen-foot radius. And then Monomon burst into laughter, and Lurien swiftly downed his full drink in a silent panic. 

Herrah would spend the next hour vaguely wondering what being trapped in a dreamscape for an eternity might have been like with these two, while they all found other things to bicker and jaw about. Perhaps it was naive to hope that they might have still been friends. But it still was a nice thought.

-

As promised, the attending foreign Queen and would-be King found each other again after a bit of time. She spotted him easily. All she’d had to do was go towards the large gap in the crowd. The man had a tendency to discourage those with a low tolerance for… well, any sort of negative emotion. His presence was good at inspiring many of those, and seemingly without him even trying. It was rather fun to imagine how the coddled types attending this sort of event might handle it if he _actually_ put in the effort.

He greeted her with a smile. Creature of despair or no, she couldn’t find the sight of it to be anything but welcome.

“Done toying with your victims?” She half-joked.

“For now. And you with yours?”

“For tonight. They’ve got their own itineraries.”

Poor Quirrel was probably going to have to _drag_ his boss home. At least he’d probably get the day off tomorrow, what with how that same boss would definitely be out of commission.

“Oh, how charming. They’re giving a speech,” Grimm interrupted her train of thought, and she looked back to see the hosting couple was, in fact, standing and saying something. Herrah couldn’t quite hear it from here, but by this point in the night (and after all the wine consumed on average), she couldn’t imagine it’d be very long. She spotted the glow of the local royals up front near them. 

“It seems they’ve been together a long time. By your standards, of course,” he mused. 

“Mm. Definitely not by theirs,” she gestured to the Root and Wyrm. “But I do think that’s why the Root managed to drag her husband along, this time. She finds the things her people cultivate over their lifetimes together utterly romantic. I’m positive he does, too.”

“Ahh. You know, I can’t blame them. There’s little that mortals do so well as _love_. It’s as if they can make up for what little time they’ll have together with intensity, or with tenderness.” Grimm spoke with a sort of quiet, dreamy quality to his voice that she would never have expected.

“I’ve always wondered how such fragile creatures could handle it all. My Heart is my realm, and my _self_ , and it is timeless. But love in all its forms can still sometimes seem heavy enough that I used to worry it might get crushed. I wonder if those two sharing their speech still feel that way, when they see each other? I truly hope they do. It gets so much better with time.” He sighed.

“There’s such _comfort_ to old, well-trodden love.”

Gods, he was a _romantic_ , wasn’t he. How unreasonably _cute_. 

“Gods, you’re a _romantic_ , aren’t you. How annoying.”

He blinked at her, as if abruptly remembering the things he said out loud were, in fact, audible. The crooked little grin he gave Herrah made her wonder if something in her tone had blown her cover. Perhaps she was already too many drinks into the night to convincingly over-correct with nonchalance. Grimm extended a hand to her, practiced and sincere all at once.

“Trouble you for a dance?”

As if on cue– there was no goddamned way he could have _planned_ that– the band started up again, and now they played something slow. 

“Of the non-lethal variety, this time?” Again, only half a joke.

“As you like.”

She took his hand. The non-lethal variety was maybe not _as_ fun, but it was still fun.

“You know, I really thought you would have chased him out by now,” Herrah wondered aloud, to have something less pretty-bright-scarlet to focus on while they danced. (Really, now. She was a full grown, battle-hardened, _widowed_ spider. At the very least, she was well past the age where she ought to be getting _butterflies_.)

“Hmm? …Oh, the Pale Wyrm?” His voice was all mischief. “I really _did_ try, but alas, there are only so many threats of existential annihilation from a void-stained God-King that one can suffer at a nice party.”

She nearly snorted. “I would imagine so.”

“Though, I did hit my allotment for tonight rather quickly.”

“Not surprising. He _is_ something of a stick in the mud. No tolerance for anything.”

“All do have their flaws. Some more than others. I’d be out of business, otherwise.”

“…Do you mean to imply that circus of yours turns a _profit?”_

“Oh, but it does! Not in– What is it you use here, geo? Well, sometimes in that, but mostly in other things.”

“Mm. Nightmares, right?”

“People. Experiences. Memories, and beauty. And also the nightmares.”

“Sounds like you lot tend to find plenty to see.”

“More like anything that’d like to be seen finds us. That’s the nice thing about a circus: You can’t miss it. All the right people find it, so long as we make ourselves known. All are kin in an audience.”

Look at that, he went almost a full five minutes without saying something discordantly ominous. Herrah considered that a new record. In the interest of keeping him grounded to where he currently was, she anchored two hands to his sides, and twirled him. The way his wings swept a long arc behind himself served to deter anyone from getting too close, not that anyone was particularly inclined to be in their space. He followed through with the move easily, trained as he was.

“So _you_ don’t go looking at all, then? What do you call having found me?”

He laughed, “Fate, if you’d allow. If I was drawn to you, it is because you do share something with those who come to us seeking kindred. But far beyond that, I think you’re very kind. And funny. Clever, too. And utterly terrifying with your weapon.”

He was being unfairly sweet, but, something else about what he’d said now had her attention.

"… Thank you, but what do you mean I 'share something’ with your troupe?“ 

Something shone on his face, something that was close to wonder. 

"Ahh. Dreams do not discriminate, but nightmares more easily find those who already know them well. And in a land like this, so soaked by the collective trauma of plague and hopelessness, you and a handful of others here still stand out as particularly _haunted_. Queen Herrah, someone like you might have been a powerful addition to our troupe, in another life.”

That was chilling, whether or not he meant it to be. The strangest part was she kind of got the sense that he did and didn’t at the same time. 

“Again, thank you, but _no_ , thank you. I’ve really got too much to do as Queen, as it stands in _this_ life.”

“Ahh, but even that exact situation hasn’t stopped one before. A queen of ruined lands seeks to leave behind her conquered city, her fears and mistakes. And for her lifetime of desperate duty, she becomes the best of us at seeking only her own hedonistic whims in her new life. A monarch is often a far more bedeviled creature than one might ever think, hmm? The sort of job where nothing ever goes well if you decide to actually _care_ about ruling. I think that is why so many simply chose _not_ to care.”

That probably answered some suspicions Herrah’d had about _Divine_. Ones she had not particularly wanted answered. He continued.

“And you, dear Queen, you have plenty in the way of nightmares trailing from you like loose thread. So much suffering, and all begat more. Your trials. Your losses. The blood you shed, and your own blood drawn.” His hand was warm on her shoulder, and the other was hot in her own hand.

“Your choice,” he came close, near whispering, “to exchange your life for another. And when that life had only just been a _concept_. You would sacrifice yourself so readily, Queen Herrah, kingdom or no. I understand. They needed you, your death would have ended their suffering– and sure, what tragedy is ending _your_ life, really, when you were already prepared to give everything for them? And for the impossible joy you had gotten in return, however brief it was meant to be, and the hope her birth offered your people.”

The dance was slow, and their bodies pressed close enough that his head tucked beside hers, and he _could_ whisper, now, a sound closer to a hiss than anything resembling a healthy voice. And he spoke, so slowly:

“You are here now, but that does not change facts, your majesty. When all hope was lost, you did not hesitate to take the opportunity for _oblivion_ when one arose.”

She dipped him. As satisfying as it would have been to catch him off guard, he seemed to expect it, and went gracefully. He had a wild look in his eye for a moment, and Herrah, heart pounding in either anger or fear or whatever else she didn’t feel like naming, had a soulsilk dagger poised at his throat.

“Do not pretend to _know_ me,” she spoke, quiet enough but more overtly a hiss. “Nothing about what _didn’t_ happen was done without endless nights of planning, of knowing the risks. I decided my life was fair bargain, and it was _not_ a choice I made lightly.”

His expression remained impassive, and that for some reason pissed her off even more. 

“I am Queen. No matter what you _think_ that means, my life is for _them_ first, no matter how that needs to happen. It is what’s _right_. The same is true for my family, for how I am a mother. I was not born to become either, I _made_ myself what I am, and it would be inane not to accept the responsibilities therein." 

"You are trying very hard to convince me, your majesty.”

She took a silent breath. His hand found the dagger, and carefully closed around the blade at his neck.

“Good point. There’s no need, is there. What would something like _you_ know of any of that, going around and _fiddling_ while you watch things so very significant burn to the ground around you? What would _you_ know of _sacrifice_?”

“Much. I have tried, too, to end my existence. And I have _succeeded_.”

That froze her, just for a second, in bafflement.

“It is a lot, on a shell, to recycle so much of what makes the world senseless within. One is so likely to burn away, you know? All to make room for the new. But I come back. Different, and with the fresh memories of un-being, but I suppose my bargain is closer to deathlessness, as yours would have been.”

She slowly pulled him back up, and he alighted to his feet with an eerie sort of float. The dagger was still kept closed in his hand.

“I was once a true someone, you know, before I became much nearer to a something. That someone died for selfish reasons. I did not mean to imply that yours were, at all. I only meant to acknowledge what happened. Because I _do_ understand,” he spoke gently.

The dance was decisively over, and the band had moved on to jauntier tunes anyhow.

“…That was… a _very personal_ place to go for on an outing like this, Grimm. I don’t think most would appreciate it.”

“…It was my understanding that we’re _supposed_ to talk about ourselves, right? And learn about each other?”

“Well, yes, but you don’t go digging around about someone’s most private _traumas_. Gods." 

”… Ah. Then. What do mortals speak of together, about themselves, that’s appropriate?“

"I don’t–” she sighed. He looked a tad lost, but not abhorred, or apologetic. Stuff like this was just so embedded in what he was, wasn’t it? So normal.

“…Okay, yes, I suppose I get it. The bad parts are normally _all_ you ever learn about a person or place, right? Alright. Let’s dial it back from that. Do you– do you have any _hobbies?”_ She found the question came out exactly as blunt and awkward as she’d hoped to avoid.

He blinked.

“I _do_ own a fiddle, actually.”

Herrah let out a startled, unbidden laugh. Grimm also looked surprised for a moment, but relaxed with a hesitant, relieved little laugh of his own. She hadn’t even noticed he’d been _tense_ , the creepy bastard.

“Grimm, the knife–”

“Ah.”

She dispelled it a split second before he thought to release it. On reflex, she took his hand to check it over. There were some new, shallow scratches in otherwise unexpectedly pristine carapace. But if he was able to bleed, he hadn’t. 

“I’m sorry,” he spoke up. “I– that was uncomfortable, then?”

“It was. But at least you _recognized_ it. You’d be surprised how _uncommon_ that can be, on most dates. Sorry about your hand.”

“…That’s fine. You cannot hurt me in any way that matters.”

She looked back up at his face, and found him smiling. 

“…What?”

“You called this a _date_.”

She dropped his hand with a scoff, and he followed her off the dance floor, _giggling_.

“Alright. So absolutely _no one_ is going to be a grown-up about that, then.”

“Excuse me, I am absolutely _positive_ that I _definitely_ grew up. I’m actually pretty good at doing that.”

Glossing over whatever the hell _that_ meant, they quickly tracked down a punch table. Herrah remembered the graduate students spending a lot of time here, and so had it on pretty good authority that if the punch fountain wasn’t originally alcoholic, at least one of them had made sure it was now incredibly so. 

(Maybe she should check on Quirrel. Between Lurien dealing with his nerves via champagne, and Monomon absolutely letting loose the second she got a day off from the archive, Herrah would prefer not to have to bodily haul _three_ soused Hallownest idiots out of here, if it came down to it. 

Or maybe, she could just enjoy her date, and let the Root deal with it.)

“…Can you actually _get_ drunk?” She asked Grimm.

“Oh my, yes.”

Before she could do it herself, he filled a couple of chalices with the stuff, and handed her’s off with a flourish. A snap of his fingers, and a bit of flame erupted on the liquid’s surface. 

“That’s a neat trick.”

He drank from his own flaming cup without hesitation.

“What trick?”

She snickered. 

“Show-off. You’re going to burn the booze out.”

Herrah had the good sense to wait for her own to stop burning before she had a sip. Yep, she was right. Grad students got to it in a _big_ way. It took everything not to recoil. The fire was not a bad call.

“Not had enough for the night?” He asked, swirling the still-flaming cup in his hand.

“Not nearly drunk enough. What, want me to slow down and give you a chance to _catch up?”_

“Don’t slow down on _my_ account. It’s only our _first date_ ,” his voice was unabashedly sing-song, “I’ll get another chance to outpace you.”

Herrah pretended to consider, eyeing her own horrid cup of whatever an overworked archival student smuggles to a nice hall in a cheap flask. 

“ _'First’,_ hm? Are you sure you aren’t just presuming things again?”

His face fell so damned quickly that she _immediately_ felt bad about that one.

“I’m kidding. Of _course_ I’d love to see you again. And the night isn’t over, yet.”

“Oh– Right, right, of _course_.” He pretended he knew that, and she was content to let him. 

_'Can’t hurt me in any way that matters,’_ indeed. Who was he fooling with that? Herrah hadn’t known very many soft-hearted creatures in her life, but this one seemed to fit the bill rather unexpectedly. One had to be careful with hearts like his. 

She found that she didn’t mind the idea of putting in that effort, at all. He’d called her _kind_ , before anything. The Beast Queen of Deepnest would receive all sorts of accolades, but _that_ had been a novelty. Not an unwelcome one.

“Hey, hold my hand.”

“I– oh?”

“Let’s go freak out the Wyrm.”

The smile that pulled from him was utterly terrifying. What a fun night they had ahead.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤


	11. Vignettes I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "glamor" of royal life, in snippets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i write things that 1: i like 2: are too short to go anywhere on their own 3: that no one actually asked for  
> and this is what im gonna do with em. would be more of em but i think we could all use some fluff rn  
> (well ok some of these Are anon drabbles tho so expect, like, maybe half of this to be new if you know me off here)

**Unreasonably small**

The window had a jagged hole nearly dead center, surrounded by long hairline cracks spanning a crooked sunburst visible beneath the thin metal latticework. 

Hornet stood by it, new toy needle in hand. The one which she had been told _explicitly_ not to throw around in the palace. She stood stag in the headlights in front of her father and stepmother, who'd seen the whole thing, and now watched her with indecipherably neutral expressions. There would be no explaining this away.

"... You shall remain there, while we discuss this," the King stated. His daughter only stared back mutely as he and his wife stepped back a ways, and spoke in hushed tones, just out of earshot.

He took a breath.

"... What do we do."

"I believe the situation calls that we discipline her."

"I know."

"Deepnest's Midwife was very clear on that. When guidelines are plainly established and agreed to, there _must_ be consequences for when they are broken, that the child might learn to better examine her impulses."

"I know, my Root. We attended the same lectures."

"Pray then, what will you do?"

"..."

"Plenty of options were discussed."

"..."

"Perhaps a day without outdoor playtime privileges? Or without her needle?"

"..." 

"My Wyrm."

"... Alright. Go tell her."

"Ah… We must do so as a united front."

"I will support you at your side."

"..."

"..."

"...She should hear it from her father, who set out the rule in the first place. Consistency is also important for a child, is it not?"

"There is more nuance to it than that. Parenthood is so very complex."

"..."

"..."

"We _have_ to at least scold her."

"I know. I know. It is. It is just…"

Hidden away from view, the King ran two hands up his face, sighing harshly.

"She is just--"

"I know, my Wyrm."

"She is just so _small."_

"I know, my Wyrm." 

She gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, and he peeked between his fingers, wholly reluctant. Then paused.

"My Root."

"Yes?"

"The child has absconded."

She turned around, and saw that where there once stood a condemned spiderling, there was now only the empty hallway and the evidence of her misdemeanor.

The King and Queen stood in silence for a moment, that same neutral gaze upon the broken window.

"... Have we taken tea yet today?"

"We have not, no."

"I believe the hour is appropriate."

"So it is. I've a lovely new set of ceramics in the parlor."

They departed.

* * *

**They're The First Things You Learn In A Second Language, Honestly**

After the history Hallownest and Deepenest had with each other, the pale royal family's education on the other side of their daughter's heritage was the very _least_ to be done in recompense. Hollow, at least, seemed genuinely interested in learning to weave. Herrah was giving them a quick rundown on how a loom worked for a being with only two hands, and had half an eye on the Wyrm where he sat with their daughter in his lap. The two were trilling something back and forth in Weaver's tongue, and as much as Herrah hated to admit it, he wasn't _completely_ butchering the words Hornet taught him. 

And as much as she _really_ hated to admit it, it was actually sort of cute. Their daughter was so excited to share the things she learned from both her homes with each other, and the fact that she would even _get_ to was still a miracle Herrah felt as though she may never get over.

She would be alive to teach her daughter so much. Herrah'd grown up with enough struggle that she'd never had any reason to put much stock into the idea that she'd live for very long. But now, though, she planned on living for a very, very long time.

Tiny giggling snapped her from her short reverie. Hornet clicked something slowly, enunciating, at her father, who in turn copied her speed and diction as best he could, much to the child's delight. The Wyrm had a slightly bemused look on his face.

"Have I mispronounced it?"

"No, it's okay, you're doing great!"

"And what does that one mean?"

"I _told_ you, it's a secret."

And his lesson continued. Herrah let out a chuckle of her own, but kept it quiet.

Hollow looked up at her from where they'd been practicing, inquisitive.

"She's teaching him all the swear words she knows," Herrah whispered, proud.

* * *

** Caterpillars **

“They really are so sweet with each other. And after so long.”

“…Are you going to cry?”

_“No–!”_

“Could you blame him? Thousands of years together– by our nearest estimate– and all the power in the world, and yet still they seem so fond of each other. It _is_ sweet.”

“Mm. I can hardly imagine it, myself.”

“Fair. _You_ hadn’t married for love or companionship, the first time.”

“… I’ve only _been_ married the one time.”

“So far.”

“If you’re offering, Teacher, I am about one more glass away from being curious enough about whatever you are to just say f–”

“ _Hush_ – you two– _the Queen is coming this way, please_ be civil–”

“ _Root!_ How are you faring, dear? We were just talking about you.”

The White Lady blinked. She was aware. Between the three Dreamers and the cider, they hadn’t been particularly quiet about it.

“I am well, thank you.” She nodded back to Herrah in greeting. She’d been about to ask how the evening in her gardens was treating them in turn, but Monomon inserted herself into the space between them rather suddenly.

“But while you are here, we do have some questions for you. Of a… technical nature, I suppose,” the Teacher began, much to the respective amusement and horror of the attending Beast and Watcher, and to the Lady’s own curiosity.

She immediately had some idea of what this might be about, judging by their conversation about her and her husband. 

She supposed it was sort of refreshing. It was not common, in a century, for a bug to find it acceptable to confront their Queen with their questions about the workings of her union with her Wyrm. It wasn’t technically polite to converse on such private matters, but she was among friends, and the Lady personally could find nothing scandalous about love and all that came with it as a topic. Though, it was probably a good thing her Wyrm was out of earshot where he now watched the children.

“Is that so?”

“By the Wy– _er_ ,” the Watcher cleared his throat, “Good Teacher, there is _really_ no need to–" 

"Come now, Watcher. Of the three of us, I’d argue that _you_ were the most curious. You certainly argued your theories with enough zeal,” Herrah pointed out. Now, that was interesting. The Lady knew little of the Watcher personally, aside from how he was apparently a private enough man to rival the King himself. And she knew how he cared for him, of course. It was really rather beautiful. Mortals and the boundless intensity of their feelings, informed so profoundly by things like time and philosophy and experience. She did hope he wasn’t _too_ frightened of her.

“I take no offense, dearest Watcher. Indeed, we _encourage_ our people to seek knowledge when the inclination strikes. It is knowledge and the ability to analyze it that separates us and you all as higher beings; ones above the creatures who lack the proclivities to know and create,” she soothed. 

“I– Yes, your majesty, thank you,” he curtseyed, fumbling slightly. Monomon was kind enough to put another glass of cider in his hands.

“So. Are the rumors about the grove to the east of the stag station true?” Herrah got them back on track.

The Lady was caught a little off guard. She’d no idea there were rumors of any sort about the king and queen.

“… Oh, my. I suppose we could have stood to be more careful,” she relented. Though, she couldn’t remember doing anything in _that_ grove specifically.

“Oh, I didn’t think it was a secret. It’s natural enough, after all. Is it ritualistic?” Monomon cut in, fascinated.

“Not at all. No matter who initiates proceedings or where, it is all in good fun.”

“I suppose the garden _would_ be convenient. Private, and very little chance of danger in your presence, with or without guards." 

"You are right that it is natural, but the presence of a guard would be unnecessary at the very least. And more than a touch awkward.”

“Ahh. Wouldn’t want anyone getting stage fright, hmm?” Herrah supplied.

“…That would be entirely possible.” Her husband was reserved enough even with her alone, sometimes. 

“But how does it _work?_ I mean, being what you are, so _different_ , and having no wings…?” Monomon cut back in.

“Your confusion is reasonable. …Though, I confess that I do not understand how a lack of wings should hinder me in my efforts…? It has never been a problem between us.”

“It’s the first thing people ask about when it comes up.” 

”…How often does this topic come up in conversation?“ Had social sensibilities again changed? And here the Queen thought she had been doing a rather good job at keeping up.

"You know, when the season arrives. When everyone is all full of energy, and up in arms about change and newness,” Herrah gestured vaguely.

"It is hardly anything new,” the Lady mused. 

The Teacher hummed. “But it _is_ rather curious, isn’t it? Hence the speculation." 

"Hm. Though speculation is understood, and I’ve little interest in quashing your fun, I am afraid it may be a breach of privacy to go into detail. I have no personal conflict about matters of the… ‘seasonal’, as you say, but I must respect that I am not the only participant.”

The other two Dreamers nodded their assent, accepting that quickly enough. It seemed Lurien was finally comfortable enough to speak up.

“That’s very sympathetic, your majesty. It is an exciting time in a young caterpillar’s life, but probably a very personal one culturally, yes?" 

The Lady halted, and tilted her head just-so. 

”… Caterpillars?“

The Watcher stalled back. The Beast and Teacher exchanged a glance.

”… Yes, your majesty? The caterpillars. The ones to whom you provide aide in learning flight,“ Monomon supplied.

"Is _that_ what we are discussing?” The Lady asked before the confusion would abate enough to let her think better of it.

Her three guests all quieted now, utterly perplexed. 

“… Yes, my lady. What did…?”

The Teacher interrupted the Watcher, seeming to catch on first.

“ _Oh!_ Oh _my_ ," 

” _Root!_ Oh– _No_ , dear, we hadn’t asked about–“ Herrah apparently caught on next, her words trailing into brief laughter. Lurien was left in the dark for another second before he went rigid, and began stammering. 

"N– oh, _gods_ , I _hadn’t_ – when I said I– when I had _theories_ , I only meant– ah– not–”

Monomon quickly lost the battle of restraint with herself and was now quietly in stitches behind poor Lurien, patting one placating tendril on his shoulder.

Herrah watched them for a moment, then eyed the Lady. The Queen of Hallownest was left with the unwelcome, mostly unfamiliar sensation of heat crawling up her neck. She knew they weren’t laughing _at_ her, but in hindsight, she _may have_ , perhaps, leapt to conclusions. She found herself thanking whatever else was out there that her husband had not been privy to this conversation.

“… So, you two, in the _gardens?_ _Really?_ ” Herrah asked simply, nothing but mirth in her voice. Monomon made a worrying hiccup in her giggling behind Lurien, who was in turn now opting for stupefied silence.

The Lady resolved to only serve _tea_ when she invited friends over for a picnic, from now on.

* * *

**Politicking, Parenthood, Partnerships, and Pugilism**

A meeting between kings was a rare thing, and a tense one. Even if one of them wasn't _technically_ King of much, and the other considered him little more than a clown, on the best of days. 

But whimsical titles and flare did not make Grimm any less cunning. When he'd received a summons to the Pale Court to "discuss" the boundaries of where he would and would not be allowed to set up his circus within the Wyrm's side of Hallownest, he'd sought backup. But in place of bringing any soldiers or kin who might be seen as a sign of hostility, he had instead chosen to just come around when he knew Herrah would be at the palace to pick up her daughter. And he had neglected to _tell_ her that he’d be there, and so orchestrated the situation into an odd sort of stalemate where he felt safe to bargain for more freedom.

It was a good move. With such important "allies" supervising, the King would be more likely to compromise. Wouldn't want to make the little girl upset by banishing her favorite performer, after all. Or piss off such an important neighboring leader by handing out ultimatums in front of her that would make it difficult for her to see her _lover._ It was awkward all around for the Wyrm. 

Herrah had mostly found this hilarious. However, she was still a _Queen_ in her own right. It wouldn't do at all to just stand idly back while Grimm had his fun, as if she were just one of his _goons._

Their little chat went on across the room while Herrah helped her daughter get her things ready by the door. At one point, she provided Hornet with a little set of instructions, quiet and carefully out of earshot.

"...Got it, honeycomb?"

Nod.

"Good. Again, _just_ this once, I promise."

"I know," she affirmed. She was _quickly_ onboard with the plan, eyes shining with mischief.

"Wonderful." Herrah gave her a little nuzzle, and the girl hurried off towards where the two deities sat. 

They halted their chatter once she stood before them, and she wasted no time declaring herself. 

"We have to go now," she told them.

Both seemed surprised. Grimm's eyes flicked up to Herrah, where she stood waiting by the door, watching the show.

"... Alright, then," the Wyrm nodded. Hornet curtseyed all proper, and bade her father goodbye like another courtier. 

"Thank you, father."

And then she ran up to Grimm, and gave _him_ an enthusiastic hug goodbye. 

" 'Bye dad!"

" _Wh_ \-- H--"

That was all he got out. Hornet didn't even give him time to hug back before she hurried back to her mother, and took her little bag in hand.

"Okay, ready."

Grimm stared at both Herrah and Hornet in mute shock, processing. She caught how an adoring little smile slowly ghosted his face, before he _abruptly_ remembered the Wyrm and whipped around to face him. The Wyrm was staring at _him_ in turn, as still and silent as death itself. 

"Alright, then. You two enjoy the rest of your chat," Herrah saluted amiably.

“...Er,” Grimm tried to begin.

"Queen Herrah," the Wyrm intoned slowly, "Would you mind, terribly, shutting the door behind you on your way out?" He wasn't even looking at her, just straight at Grimm, who in turn eyed Herrah in utter bafflement.

Herrah shut the door behind her with a quiet click. 

Hornet glanced up, adjusting her bag.

"... Father's going to murder him, you know.”

Herrah waved her off. "Oh, he'll be--"

_Clatter, whumph, squawk!_

Herrah halted. 

For all that she'd been a willing accomplice, Hornet just leveled her mother with that keen, unimpressed gaze of her's, for a moment a tiny mirror of her world-weary father. 

"... I'll see you at home, honey. Tell the stag not to wait up for me."

The Princess wasted no time in hurrying off, ever so quick to wash her hands of the situation.

-

To the Wyrm's credit, he had _not_ murdered Grimm. 

He had, however, punched him right in the eye. 

The door had opened, and the Wyrm had strode past Herrah in a regal, unhurried gait, hands folded primly behind him, with nary a word nor glance in her direction.

Herrah had been perfectly fine with this, and was quickly relegated to the fruitless task of finding something to act as a cold press that would _stay_ cold for more than a few seconds on Grimm's shell. 

After a bit of fussing with that, and getting him up off the floor and back onto the chaise, Grimm finally deigned to speak, fingers steepled together in front of his face.

"...Herrah."

"Yes?"

He paused a second, then parted his hands.

" _Why?"_

"Well, we thought it'd be funny."

He stared at her, then dropped his hands and let out a defeated sigh.

"... Damn you, it _was._ Little bastard flew at me like a _belfly_."

Herrah barely kept from snorting. 

"In my defense, I hadn't expected him to actually _act_."

"Oh, well, _that_ makes it better,” he muttered flatly.

"Look on the bright side. He'll be much more open to compromise now. We can _absolutely_ lord this over him."

"Mm." He was still pouting. The terror of dreams incarnate, _pouting_ , holding a freezing chunk of wingsmould armor over his eye and everything.

Herrah tutted. "Consider us even, for your little stunt of trying to _hide behind us_ while you handled the Wyrm on his turf."

He was apparently _committed_ enough to pouting that he quickly bit down his grin.

"I have _absolutely_ no idea what you're on about, none whatsoever. I was only accepting a summons. And my dearest, _loveliest_ ally just so happened to be in the vicinity. And with their shared daughter in tow, who just so _happens_ to prefer me alive. It's all so very circumstantial."

"Circumstantial evidence still holds up in court."

"Why would I be on trial? _I_ was the one attacked!"

"I _did_ just say we're even. No need to settle anything before a jury."

He huffed, shuffling further back into the chaise, away from her.

"So cruel. ...I wouldn't have _minded_ it _,_ you know."

"Hm?"

He eyed her from where he lay, huffy as you please.

"She called me _'dad'_ . That had been so _sweet_ . Such _cruel_ creatures, the both of you. What in the world have _I_ ever done wrong to deserve this?"

Herrah had a brief moment where she imagined a circus calliope playing over cities collapsed in fire and choked by ash, and a line of mourners shambling in a despondent flock towards the music.

"... As adorable as your face had been when she did that, and as cute as the _pouting_ is, I'm afraid I already asked her about that a while back. She's plenty fond of you, but doesn't particularly see you that way."

"... You asked?" His voice was quiet, guard dropped entirely. So quickly. Herrah tried not to shift, or visibly drop her own.

"Well… yes. You've been around for… for a _while_ now, sweetheart."

"By mortal standards?"

"By mine."

He set the “cold press” down, and shuffled forward a bit until next to her again. His hand found the back of her's where it rested in her lap, and he locked their fingers together.

"Whatever I am to either of you, I am happy to stay," he spoke gently, eyes sweet.

She scoffed. "I _know_ that. You've never done a damn thing that you didn't _want_ to do, and I doubt you ever will."

"Herrah."

"... Right. Sorry. Not the time?"

He carefully lifted her mask and veil, over-gentle as ever. Again, by _her_ standards. It was still not the easiest thing to get used to, especially outside her own home. It was so much easier to _tease._

"You _did_ get me punched in the face. Spoil me, a moment," he teased right back, perhaps sensing her hesitation.

"I spoil you plenty."

"That is one opinion." 

"...But I _am_ sorry about that," she insisted, more serious. He hummed, unbothered.

"I know. If you meant me harm, you're more than capable by yourself."

"Is that so? What happened to 'can't hurt me in any way that matters?'"

"The Pale Wyrm with his cold little _fist_ is not a way that _really_ matters. What _you_ are capable of breaking is far more significant."

"Than your _face?"_

"Well, I suppose that _is_ rather important."

"It's admittedly a rather _nice_ face."

"Isn't it?" 

He kissed her through their shared smiles. Not for the first time, Herrah counted herself lucky she'd gone and found someone who could simply _feel_ her fear at the prospect of ever hurting him. It wasn't an easy thing to put to words. That affinity for terror of his _must_ be behind all that patience for her. 

The patience in itself was also a frightful thing. If he meant to know all of her, at this point, all he'd have to do was _wait_. How utterly terrifying.

"And I do not _pout_ ," he huffed, matter-of-factly, once they pulled back. She took a second to regroup, and laughed a bit.

"If you're _not_ pouting, hurry up and _heal_ yourself, then."

That was _definitely_ pouting. 

"Oh, _boo_ . Would it _really_ be too much to ask for a little fawning over? I am _injured._ " His hand flew over where his heart would be, all melodrama. 

"I hope you're prepared to wait until we get back to the _den_ , then, because we've still got to finish talking with the Wyrm."

"’We’?"

"Mhm. We could get you a good deal, once I threaten to spin this into an _international incident_." Gods, that was going to be fun. The Wyrm was probably already freaking out to his wife about how he'd lost his temper like a feral loodle.

He barked out a laugh, searching her eyes. He seemed to like whatever he found there. 

"This hardly counts. I've technically no 'nation' of my own. The Nightmare Realm is hardly a place with any _legislation."_

"No, but Deepnest is, and _that_ one is mine. And as long as _you_ continue to call yourself mine, you're under my protection."

"She gets me punched in the face, and then speaks of _protecting_ me."

"You're not going to let me live that down, are you? Even if it _was_ funny."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll _eventually_ make it up to me."

She kissed him again, and he was unabashedly smug about it.

* * *

**Art and Meaning**

The museum in the City's arts district was an especially common spot for tourists, and for schoolchildren sent out for extra credit. Funded by the King himself, who the curators would explain had a soft spot for preserving Hallownest's evolving artistic trends and discoveries like an album. Exhibits ranged in time period from when first the kingdom was established, and all the way up to now, with something from nearly every era in between. 

Hornet was here on one of those field trips, following a governess through one of the many halls of paintings, unsure where to look. She was vocal enough about what she did and did not like, much to the chagrin of said governess. Art, the aged bug told her crisply, was a thing one must cultivate a proper appreciation for, and to do so required culture, and context, and an eye for critical detail.

Hornet had pretty much tuned her out by the time she stopped in front of a small oil painting in a sterling frame. A vignette, dark and drabby blues contrasting a pretty bouquet of colorful flowers, painted as if front lit from some vague and gentle glow. Hornet stared at it for a few seconds, just long enough for the governess to notice, and click her approval.

"A fan of that one? Good. If you've studied, you ought to be able to tell me who the painter--"

"The Watcher did it," Hornet said simply. 

The old woman blinked, then cleared her throat.

"Very good. It's a newer piece of his, relatively, and one whose style many argue marked the start of Hallownest's artistic reignition in the aftermath of--"

"He did it a few years ago, I know. Right after the infection died."

She sighed, already losing patience with her charge. Luckily, that didn’t make Hornet any less correct.

"...Hmm. Alright, then, state _your_ interpretation of what it means."

"He did it because he liked the flowers. He thought they made the room much nicer," she said simply, and with confidence.

"...Is that _all?_ " It was only barely not a sneer. "I do believe our exalted Watcher deserves more credit than _that_. A mind like his sees meaning in things many can never understand."

Hornet leveled her governess with a reticent look, and imagined she could call upon the weight of her mother's presence in her gaze. 

" _Yes_. I was there when he visited the palace and saw these flowers in the throne room. _My_ _sibling_ put together the bouquet themself. They made a replica for his reference upon request. This is that replica."

The old woman went wide-eyed for a millisecond, and set her mandibles taut.

"...Ah. Very… very good, then."

"Don't you wish to know what the _flowers_ mean?" Hornet pressed, careful not to slip into what she'd be scolded for as "a rude tone."

The governess only nodded, once, short and clipped.

"Peace and beauty, mostly. Hollow was just having a nice day."

* * *

**Oh Shit Oh Fuck Oh Oops**

"...Wow."

It had been an accident. But _stars,_ it looked like a rather _large_ accident all spread around the room like that, didn't it? 

The chain of events had gone thusly: Hollow had entered the room. Hollow had knocked a horn on a (relatively) low hanging lantern. Said lantern had fallen, and to Hollow's credit, they had caught it safely. 

In their rush, though, they knocked over a candelabra with their elbow. When _that_ fell, the rug where it landed had briefly started smoldering, and Hollow's first instinct had been to kick the rug over away from it. 

They had apparently misjudged their strength, for that rug had had a console table on the other end of it. And said console table was tipped over by the disturbance, and a number of rather expensive looking crystal and porcelain display items had promptly gone shattering all over the floor. 

And Hornet had watched all of this happen, from where she had been sitting and practicing cello on the other side of the room. She watched them with a carefully neutral expression, but Hollow had the slightest suspicion that she was graciously sparing them the embarrassment of getting laughed at.

"Nice catch."

 _Gracious, indeed_.

"Did you hear that?"

Both royal children jolted at the unmistakable voice of Hollow's _mother_ , from somewhere down the hall. The two looked at each other with the same dawning horror. 

"... Don't look at _me,_ I had no part of this!" She hissed, not daring to raise her voice. Hollow hadn't actually thought about sharing the blame, but they supposed they did appreciate how she hadn't immediately zipped away from the scene of the crime on her silk. Then again, doing so might have made her look suspicious. 

Alright-- they needed to think fast. They could hide the evidence (and clean it properly later), but they needed to stall for time. They needed a distraction. 

Hollow strode back out the door, and overhand pitched the lantern as far away as they could down the other side of the hall. 

The crashing on its impact was far too loud, and went on for _far too long,_ for it to have just hit solid wall. They flinched.

"... What in the _world--_?" Came the now receding voice.

It worked. The Queen was headed down the wrong way, and Hollow quickly ducked back into the room.

Hornet was looking at them with a hand over her mouth, and so much laughter in her eyes that they nearly stopped panicking.

"I am _so_ proud of you," she said simply.

Hollow huffed, and motioned her over to help them hide the mess.

* * *

** Beautiful **

He had been having a particularly trying day, when he presented her with the piece. A pendant, set in swirling, delicate pale ore lacework, and the jewel set into the center was a glimmering thing of every color visible to the White Lady in this form. Hidden on either side was a hinge and a pressure latch, and he demonstrated as the piece clicked open to a small compartment inside.

"Mortals gift them to their beloveds, either with something else significant already inside, or else left empty for its recipient to choose."

"It is beautiful, my Wyrm. Your work never ceases to be."

No words had to be exchanged for her to bend a bit so he could clasp it around her neck.

"These will be in fashion, soon." He hummed. 

"Is the piece itself meant to be my gift, then, or is it the opportunity to be on top of the trend?"

"Would you prefer I had waited?" He jested dryly.

"I am rather inclined to believe that _now_ is always preferable."

His hands lingered on the chain, trailing off to adjust the pendant to satisfaction. Ever careful, ever focused.

"Thank you, my love. Even if it had been out of fashion completely, there is still much to envy. Such an exquisite piece, and crafted by the King's own hands." 

"...Though tainted as they are." He removed his hands from the pendant. She chased one with her own, gentle and easy, perfectly natural. 

"None shall go through life entirely unmarred. The artists these days find beauty in the scars we accumulate, for how they build us." 

He glanced up at her face again, his eyes looking so tired. And then looking so helplessly fond when he watched their hands, his voice quiet. 

"Is that right?" 

"Perhaps I would not have agreed with that notion before, but I do now. What marvels our people are, aren’t they? To be able to find and teach of the beauty and significance one will find in imperfection, should one choose to look. And it is not so difficult to see at all."

She brought his hand up close where it was clasped in her's, and kissed it. 

"...Hm." There was amusement in the sound. The small smile in his eyes, so easily missed, was rarer and lovelier to her than any shining bauble.

"Is something funny?"

"... With that in mind-- beauty in flaws, I hope you take no offense, my lady, when I still tell you how you are the most beautiful creature I could ever know."

She laughed lowly, and brought him close. The locket clinked against a horn, and he sighed into the embrace.

"Only if you will not take offense if I tell you the same. And tainted or no, my love, you still make such _wonderful_ things with those hands."

And try as she might, she'd find no flaw in the jewelry. Both were beautiful all the same.

* * *

_Dear sister_ ,

You know that I love you immensely, and you know how my loyalties to my home and kin remain heretofore unshaken by any force beset upon this great, storied land.

However, if I find out that you've rifled through my candy stash again, I am afraid I will be left with no choice but to drop you headfirst into the waterways like a stone.

_With love,_

_Hollow_

-

_Dearest sibling; our Irradiant Princeling of Hallownest,_

Fuck you. Stop hoarding it all, then.

_Respectively yours and ever with affection,_

_Hornet, Crown Princess of Deepenest_

* * *

**It's Probably Fine**

" _Father_."

The King blinked.

"... Apologies. You were saying?"

Hornet eyed him, suspicion and irritation unhidden. She looked over her shoulder behind her, at whatever she perceived he saw.

"What are you staring at?"

"Forgive an old man his reveries, if you will."

She huffed. The suspicion didn't abate completely, but it did enough for her to drop the matter.

"I was _trying_ to give you news on the border wastes. A new band of merchants has crossed into the surface towns. Given how their arrival coincides with a recent string of break-ins, I worry they may actually be marauders."

They spoke shortly of granting Hornet permission to head an investigation. Her reputation as protector would at least be enough to keep the people calm. And it was certainly _earned_ , as any band of troublemakers that may be up there would learn.

But he still glanced over her shoulder, from time to time. More accurately, _at_ her shoulders. He saw the uncomfortable set to them, and the stiffness to some of their movements. Like she had a twinge, or some soreness. 

It was worryingly reminiscent of how he'd felt before his _wings_ split free from his shell, back when he'd morphed his new form. They'd been the last part of him to develop.

He quickly dismissed these musings. It was always entirely possible that he was again just being fretful.

* * *

**It's Probably Not Fine**

The Pale King was a little prone to fatigue, sometimes. A little prone to drifting off into his memories. The regretful ones were the easiest to slip into. This was nothing if not expected. Many in his life had come to describe him as a regretful sort.

But still, it was all relatively easy to dismiss. He had so much work to do, so many who now depended on him while he lived. It was so easy, most of the time, to tune out the song of the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ᐛ )


	12. Once and Future King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But of course, there are still consequences.  
> Peace in the kingdom doesn't change that.  
> And this peace came at a particularly heavy cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. so. warnings for this one:  
> -theres a lot of talk about death. a lot  
> -body horror, of the eldritch variety  
> -no one dies but i am not joking about the death talk i know this kinda thing wigs people out and theres quite a bit of it  
> -unreality someone's deffo not doing great vis a vis the whole "existing in the current time and place and body" thing  
> -length. it's 14 thousand words. roommate asked me how it was going and i apparently just screamed the word TWENTY-EIGHT like a pro wrestler, referring to the page length of the single spaced doc i was working on  
> -gratuitous romance. these two are are very very old and they are very very in love, and that is a threat  
> -lmk if i missed anything

One would think that a being so preoccupied with prophecy would be able to more _easily_ dismiss the past than most others. 

"Most others" only had to share their heads with recollections of things already over and done with. The Pale Wyrm had the unfortunate blessing of having to store _two_ ends of that fourth dimension within his own, with only the context of current life to separate them. 

Separating them did not _used_ to be so difficult. Or perhaps it _would_ not be so difficult. Or perhaps it might not have been, or might not be soon. 

He often had to stop thinking about time entirely for a while, until enough of it had passed that he could again convince himself that anything about it made any sense at all. 

The King preferred not to rely on his foresight for every little thing, if he could help it. The consequences of most things encountered in one's day to day life, he thought, could be gleaned logically. And most of the time, the worst and least expected of those consequences were entirely survivable.

Back when the Old Light had sunk her rotting claws into his kingdom, enacting her vengeance, the King had done away with his restraint regarding his foresight entirely. With both the kingdom's survival and his own both plunged into uncertainty, he couldn't afford not to utilize his gift as much as he had been able. If anything, it was doubly precious for how it was a resource at _his_ disposal alone, providing him with a single advantage against his foe when all the odds were stacked in her favor. 

Even if that advantage also meant seeing _exactly_ how bad those odds were.

He'd looked ahead nearby, and he'd looked ahead so very far away. He'd drawn up plans, looked ahead again, and then discarded them all after watching how they'd play out. All had ended in the same oozing, putrid calamity. 

He'd seen hundreds of iterations of himself live hundreds of lives, tumbling and roiling about together in thought-speed motion. He had bombarded himself with what-ifs and what-woulds and what-can'ts until he was left so disoriented that he would walk about the palace, entirely unsure how to know what was and was not _real._ And even if he could ground himself, he'd often ended up dominated by dread of what _could_ be, rendering what currently _was_ entirely unimportant. 

Including the words of his currently living retainers, his wife's concern, and himself. Day to day duties to the state. Food, rest, and even hygiene. If it was in the present, it did not _matter_ . What was bad now _could_ be worse later. _Would_ be, without _his_ intervention, for _he_ was the only one with any power to truly know and prepare. The Pale King was eventually consumed wholly, body and soul, by his obsessive need to _not let it get worse._

Most of his written tablets and plans from that time have been destroyed, as much of them ended up amounting to complete gibberish. They'd been written from his place at the epicenter of a self-inflicted superstorm of constant information; hundreds upon hundreds of desperately scrawled prophecies of change and death and birth and sick and light and dark and rubble and runes and nails and knights and cabbages and kings. And then,

_Eternity in promise and charge in progeny cursed_. 

He could not remember writing the words but he remembers the way the chisel buried so deep into the stone it cracked in his hands and snapped him from weeks of mania into a _moment_ of lucidity. A moment he used to hone in on what course of action could really, truly offer some promise of hope. A promise of _something_ that did not end in the violent death of everything he'd built, and of himself. 

But it had been unimaginably cruel. It was the siphoning of the immeasurably precious soul and mind that was of him, of his light, of his heart. Of his wife, too, and so of _all_ of his heart. The cores of their very beings, sacred in their holy creativities. They would take it all away, they would take the gifts entitled to all that could know and love them, from their own _children_ . And of however many needed to be hatched, only _one_ would be usable. Only one hollowed shell would survive. And the rest…

And the rest.

But this way did not _just_ offer hope for any old future. It offered, specifically, an eternal reign under _his_ divine eye, where all he had worked for would flourish far beyond any dream he had for this place when he'd first burrowed in and claimed it his. No blazing kin, only one light to shine against the dark. It offered deathlessness to a place where death had once been constant. It offered him the opportunity to share his own eternity with his kingdom, to grant it an immortality for him to watch over. Most things came to an end. One outcome, though, might ensure that _Hallownest_ never would. He would never have to one day watch it die. Never, ever again. Never again. Never again. Never again. 

For that, for what _could_ be, and to avoid what would _definitely_ be without any intercession at all, and what would be with the wrong _sort_ of intercession, the boiling and the fading and the darkness--There could be no cost too great. 

He'd already seen so much. This would only be one set of atrocities to prevent yet more. These would serve a purpose, beyond Him, beyond Her. Damn the hands to save the head. _And the rest_ would never have lived in truth, anyway. _And the rest_ could not be as important as those who did, those who loved him, those who _sustained_ _him._

She needed to be contained. The kingdom would only last for as long as She could be _contained._ So She had to be contained forever. Harness would be placed upon Void, and She would be contained. 

  
  


No cost too great.

  
  


"Darling."

The King blinked, and looked back up to what was _presently_ in front of him. 

He'd been walking through the palace with his lady wife. He remembers passing the workshop. He remembers watching black sludge leak steadily from the space between the bottom of the door and the tile, but his Root hadn't even batted an eye. Now, they were at the atrium before the palace gates, and he had apparently stilled.

It made sense, the King realized, that she hadn't noticed. The small flood of void accidentally spilled from his workshop had been _decades_ ago, after all. And the walk to the courtyard only began minutes ago. He quickly reconciled the discrepancy, and then neatly compartmentalized it for later consideration. 

"...Yes?" He took care not to croak.

"One can only wonder how long you have been lost to me, as I'd only just now noticed your distance."

The Pale King took a pause to look between her eyes, and then set his gaze back forward.

"...I've only ever been here," he said, the closest thing to assurance he had any current ability for.

The White Lady watched him in turn, not yet resuming their pace. 

"...I am sure it must feel that way, my Wyrm."

He didn't feel her hand find his, for a second or a minute or a year. But slowly, he remembered he could return her grip. Touch was important to a creature that had once mainly navigated the world by it. _This_ touch became his focal point for the immediate present, where he was in the courtyard, with his wife, enjoying a morning walk in the quiet and fresh air before the bustle that would come when the rest of the palace awoke for duty. Before the paperwork, before the social calls, before the meetings. Before the children, his own, alive, would arise for breakfast. All those things he had now. All those things he had _now._

No one was around to see, but the king doubted that any other presence would be enough to stop him, right then, from bringing his Root's hand up for a kiss. Gentle and unbidden, while he confirmed the surety of it against his fingers.

In response, she only brought her other hand up to cup his mask, and let the moment between them linger. He pressed into it with equal softness, and for now, the call of the void sea was silent.

* * *

Mirages of the past continued to plague the King at random. He should not be able to _see_ different versions of it like he could futures, but that wasn't stopping the visions from coming anyway. Also against the rules his foresight normally followed, these came against his will, and at odd times. 

He'd watch the retainers go about their duties, and would imagine the way they'd scurried to pull white sheets over furniture before rushing to bunker down in the deeper recesses of the castle while chaos reigned outside. He'd see the vines and leaves that thrived along the walls and skylights, and watch how they'd have slowly receded, undeniably in the direction of the Queen's gardens. 

These sorts of daydreams were actually among the easier ones to manage. But there were others. Some that upset him enough that he'd have to mentally clamp down on them before they got too vivid. 

Images of sporadic groups of pale little figures dashing between doorways, or taking lessons in the library, or play-fighting in the courtyard. So many little white masks. The hypothetical clutches that came to survive in his visions would drastically vary in size, and in the individual children they bore.

But these phantom half-scenarios were dreams _beyond_ dreams; outside the realm of anything that had ever even come _close_ to actually coming to pass. He did not let them materialize for more than an instant, no matter what he needed to do to distract himself. There was thankfully much in the way of distraction in his life, for his endless duties as King, or husband, or deity, or as the father that he _did_ end up being, and so the tightness in his chest and throat would never last long. 

But it was much more difficult to keep versions of the past that could have been _feasible_ from haunting him. The family that actually ended up coming to be was a frequent source of the "what-ifs" that would sometimes besiege him without warning. 

He would look at his daughter, sometimes, who was growing stoic and sharp, and see younger versions of her, and of him.

He'd recall, for example, a day where she'd been swinging through the palace halls on newly learned silk magic, and had scraped up her knees and cloak when her thread snapped and sent her crashing into a potted fern. In this version of them in his mind's eye, he'd knelt to her with his arms out when she'd started to sniffle, and she'd ran up to him, and let him pick her up and check her for injuries. She would have been easily cheered again at his praise for her agility, even if it came with a stern reminder not to go throwing silk around the hallways. 

In the version of events that had _actually_ happened, though, he'd frozen up in his surprise and stared for a few seconds, and she hadn't hesitated to run off to find her sibling in the other room as the better choice for comfort. His only words had been to whatever retainer had been nearby to have them fix up the toppled fern, while he continued off to whatever very important royal errand he'd had that he could no longer remember. 

What struck him hardest about that scene, and those like it, was how _easy_ hindsight made taking a different course seem. Could it really have been? In which turn of events, truly, was he fooling himself?

At any rate, his daughter actively preferred that he left her alone, nowadays. 

He figured that was for the best.

He often faced similar hauntings of hypotheticals with Hollow, but not the same sorts as with their sister. With Hollow, it was less about what _he_ was not, and more what _they_ were not. Everything _they_ could have been prodded at him every single time he looked at them, because the reality was that they could have been absolutely _anything_ . It mostly depended on if he ever realized they were not what he intended, and how early or late in their life that realization would have come. It was a very particular type of punishment he'd inflict upon himself; to occasionally imagine looking at them one day as a youngling, still small and grub-soft, and consider what would have been if he'd wondered even for a _second_ if he might have failed in his attempt at creating a pure Vessel. Maybe the slightest display of outward doubt from their father would have been enough to get them to reach out for him, or lash out at him, or something, anything.

He'd once imagined realizing his mistake as soon as he brought them home. In that reverie, he'd conveniently glossed over the terror and hopelessness such a thing doubtlessly would have instilled in him, when he hadn't yet known how the Old Light's fate would play out. In reality, of course, he could not afford to doubt himself even once. And so he hadn't.

But still. It was unnervingly easy to focus on the possible aftermath of his family's new addition, if he _had_ doubted, and had taken responsibility. On how his wife would have taken the news that yes, they'd truly get to be parents. On how he'd begin trying to make up for his transgressions with his surviving child immediately, by first teaching them to write and sign and express themself with manners. On how they'd always have that uncanny attentiveness and capability of acquiring whatever skill they had to, and getting to let them _choose_ what they'd excel in. 

On how neither he nor his wife had any cultural precedent whatsoever for names, but how their hatchling would have needed something else to be called. The Saved Child, perhaps. The Abyssal Gift. The Pale Princeling. 

(Their baby, little one, darling, starlight.)

Or perhaps they would have liked the idea of a name, and chosen one for themself when given the opportunity. They were quite fond of "Hollow", as they presently existed.

 _Hollow_ would not ever get back the life stolen from them. But unlike their father, they seemed to look to the future with a single-minded focus. Perhaps having so little to look _back_ on simply gave them no choice.

Though, that occasional detachment from the present was something the king seemed to share with his surviving child. But where his confusion was in time, Hollow's was in space, or maybe in self. Either way, the king would sometimes notice it within them, and at the first sign of their detachment would distract them with some task or activity. And at the times when distraction wouldn't help, he'd excuse them from whatever duties they had for the day, and formally suggest they take some time to rest in the quiet of their room. 

Hollow once acknowledged him after one of their spells, still possibly feeling a little disconnected, with a hug. By some outside blessing far greater than his own, the way he'd frozen up hadn't deterred them at all. And even if they had been the one shaken by their ennui, the King was not able to avoid the certainty that they had also been trying to reassure _him_ that they were alright _._

(How horrific their kindness was, when their father considered it within them _now_ , after everything he'd done to them. All their life, they should have been treated so kindly _first_. They should have been beloved. Could have been. Should-have could-have would-have.

All he could do right then, though, was finally remember to hold them in return. 

It was laughable as compensation. Infinitesimal.)

And finally, there was his Root. The visions were different when they concerned her, but when the King thought on it, that wasn't too much of a surprise. His lady love always was an exception to a great many of his rules.

Versions of events past would come to him specifically when he did _not_ see her. He would be walking down any given hallway or ambulatory heavy with foliage, and in his mind's eye would see only bare marble and ore. 

He'd hear courtiers whisper in the halls, and remember how they once only ever dared to speak of the absent Queen in hushed tones, and how they'd quickly silenced themselves when they thought the King might be within a normal bug's hearing range.

He'd walk into their bedchamber when it was empty, and no matter what time it was, it would suddenly be the middle of the night. One of those nights where he'd hesitate at the doorway for a minute, all but twiddling his thumbs, and then ultimately decide to spend the hours until morning tinkering in his workshop instead of retiring to bed. When those nights had been real, they had been more tolerable when he kept his hands and mind busy.

Now though, when that old habit struck, some staff or another would generally interrupt him at whatever odd hour of the night he had himself holed up figuring out a pressure plate mechanism, and they would politely inform him that the Queen wished to bid him goodnight. And he would relax like a valve had been loosened, put the project down, blink away the sleepless snow in his vision, and leave the workshop.

So, her presence was usually enough on its own to tether him to the current time, and current version of himself. She had a guiding light all her own; one less all-encompassing than his, but just as enrapturing to the right kind of creature. Her husband definitely counted himself among those right kinds, though his devotion to her had been more organically cultivated. 

But on days where he felt less like himself, he thought it unfair to her that she had to act as a grounding force for him so frequently. When he had expressed that concern with her, she'd merely looked at him, and then asked what a root was meant to be if not _grounded_.

By the wastes above and oblivion beneath, he loved her so. He only hoped his presence offered her as much comfort in return, despite everything behind them.

He thought this as he returned to their chambers one night, some hours after the morning when they'd walked together and he'd briefly lost himself years and years away. His wife was already there, drafting some document at their workstation, which was mostly just a nice desk where mail and flora often tended to

overflow.

"What work still has you preoccupied so late?" He asked by way of greeting, knowing she already knew he'd entered. 

"The unenviable task of formally ejecting a member of our privy council from her seat," the Lady intoned.

"Whatever for?"

"A rather embarrassing instance regarding a night at her favorite tavern, her own short temper, and some pressed charges."

"... Which councilor?"

"The economist. The one with the small estate near southern city limits."

He took a moment to try and remember which one that was.

"The one who always reeks of tobacco and chalk dust," she clarified further.

"Ah. Almack. ...I would not have thought her the type."

"Mm. Then providence has clearly saved you from spending much time around the council at any sort of event where spirits are served."

"Luck, only. Providence would imply that I'd put in the effort. Unless you mean to admit that it is your _own_ that protects me."

She hummed. "Would that I could protect my beloved from the world, but no. However, if you _seek_ a gift from one divine, do consider the next necessary but dreary administrative task yours alone."

"Such generosity from our exalted Queen. I could not _possibly_ accept." He kept his voice in a careful, formal monotone.

"Some would call it rude to reject a gift."

"Direct me to them, then, and we can debate rudeness as a philosophy."

"My Wyrm, you are _not_ leaving me to select a replacement councilor."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Her tone had taken on a note of exasperated amusement the longer he'd kept his flat. His façade finally cracked when she shot him an unimpressed look, and he had to control down any hint of mirth in his expression. He was not entirely successful, if the way she smiled despite herself told him anything. He dropped the act entirely.

"Alright, of course. Are you nearly finished?"

She told him "Just another minute," and returned to her writing. 

He got a headstart, then, on the languid ritual of getting ready for bed. He shed his robes and any other extraneous decoration, and then picked out a tablet from his collection he could read to pass the time. It wouldn't be long until she joined him. 

Perhaps it was a little silly that he still waited for her like this after so many centuries. But there were plenty of things he could tell himself in order to rationalize his behavior, whenever he thought to be embarrassed. Like that it was something of a holdover instinct from what he'd been; once a burrowing, serpentine thing that knew to huddle with its mate and clutch for the best chance at surviving the elements. Or that it was a more mystical sort of pull, something about their bond as pale beings who found solace and veneration in each other's light, and so naturally sought each other out at their most vulnerable, in order to again feel indestructible and leviathan.

Or perhaps it was just that her company and comfort was _nice_ . Perhaps pretense of any kind really oughtn't mean very much, here at their marital bed. Perhaps it was that this was possibly the one singular place where the world did not expect gods and beasts, and being able to _share_ that with someone he loved so meant too much to properly articulate. Here was quaint and uncomplicated. He only had to be a husband here. There was so little to that, in the grand scheme of things. 

("The grand scheme of things" was also something he generally had to preside over. But not here, where he could hear little of the world beyond their breathing, and beyond the sleepiest of prayers.)

She did finish soon enough, and then joined him in bed at her own pace. His Lady was unhurried; she never seemed to feel the day's exhaustion so heavily as he did. This was likely because she believed wholeheartedly in indulging one's body and mind with rest whenever either gave any indication that it was wanted, whereas he preferred to simply go about doing everything with as much efficiency as his immortal body would allow in any given time frame. And for all she would chide him for his habits, she certainly never seemed to mind whenever they meant he would sleep so soundly in her arms.

Neither of their bodies served to stave off the everpresent chill of the palace with any natural warmth. That didn't matter, at her closeness he still sighed as though her's did for him. His hands settled around her with a gentleness that sat closer to reverence than familiarity. His wife would sometimes indulge in the care he took with touching her as if handling a fragile manuscript, unnecessary as it was. Other times, though, she'd fuss with him until he did in return. This night would evidently be one of those latter times, where she pulled him closer and gave cursory checks around his mask and chitin, as if he might have somehow come to some harm or soil, rubbing along his jaw and the back of his neck until he was near trilling. Her attention did different things to him, depending on the night. Sometimes it'd knock him right out, and sometimes he would be urged to try and make the night proceed so neither of them got very much sleep at all. But tonight, it seemed the day's trend of wistfulness would continue to follow him. 

He caught one of her hands in one of his, claws curled gently around, and pulled it close enough that she must be able to feel his heart beat, if she couldn't already. In all honesty, he was sure she must have felt it the instant he stepped into the room. She was sensitive to those sorts of things, being what she was, and by now his fabricated pulse was so familiar to her that it may as well beat _for_ her.

(He was certain that if he tried to say so aloud, she'd probably tease him for it. And he'd deserve it. But that wouldn't stop him from believing it, on the days where loving her with all he could give as a deity helped to quiet the regrets that took the form of resonant void-song somewhere deep behind his shell.) 

She stroked along the chitin down his back, minding the wingbuds, and he watched her eyes. It was a luxury to know them so well, when his full attention was often too much for most other beings to bear head-on like this. It was by virtue of that unique familiarity that he was able to notice something odd. Something he might have missed in the normal ambient light of the palace, or of her gardens. A fuzzy little hint in each one, a lightening of color a semitone above what it should have been. 

In turn, she must have seen some confusion in his own eyes, because she was prompted to cease her ministrations and speak.

"... Does something trouble you?"

"... You--..." His voice had dropped to a rasp. He stopped briefly to clear his throat.

"Your eyes. Something has changed in their physicality."

"Pardon?"

"I can see it. In all your centuries in this form, you've never before changed anything." It came out sounding like a question.

”And I still have not. Are you certain?"

"I would know yours before I'd know my own."

"Hyperbole does not suit you, my Wyrm."

"I imagine it wouldn't, no."

She pulled their clasped hands closer to herself, and then pressed their foreheads together. Security once again promised by proximity. He let it soothe his nerves some. He hadn't even noticed them in himself, but of course _she_ had.

"I pray that age and immortality will not cause you to now see doom in every new difference to your world. Deathless or no, we still change with time as anything else does. It is no cause to fret."

She hadn't asked what was different. Whatever it was, she knew about the cause. And she was actively trying to keep him calm about it. He pulled back some, reluctantly, and examined her again, his palm light on her cheek. Her expression was neutral as she watched him in turn.

"... Does something trouble _you,_ my Root?" 

"Not at the moment, no." 

"Would you _tell_ me if there was, by your own volition?"

"... If I thought you should know, or if it concerned you."

He considered this. 

"... So long as you feel that you can, and that it'd be a better alternative than--..."

"Than what, my Wyrm?"

"...Than running from it. Especially if there might be something I can do."

Her flight to the gardens (and what would have come after) was still an uncomfortable topic. But they'd both conceded that it was important that they not ignore it, nor pretend any of the more… sullen details that'd led to their previous separation hadn't happened. Pride would serve neither of them. She knew he meant no offense, and whispered her assurances.

"...There is nothing presently worth worrying over. Though I know that may be a difficult thing to reconcile, for one who already believes himself to bear responsibility for everything in known civilization."

He knew that she also meant no offense. It was true. Every problem in the kingdom was for _him_ to solve, and most had faith that he _could_ solve all the world's ills, whether he'd done anything to earn it or not. Heavy weighs the crown, and all that.

"But are you _alright?"_ He persisted.

"I assure you, dearest, I am not laden with anything terminal."

He huffed, and she responded with a brief kiss, unbothered. 

"That is a relief, but it was not what I'd asked." 

"If you'd like, then, I am sure I could find something about my day to complain about to your satisfaction. Perhaps I might tell you more of the economist, or of the Hive Queen's latest snipe at our expense. Or, of that frightfully worrisome husband of mine. I'd have plenty to speak about him."

Everything about her tone and wandering hands indicated that she was trying to distract him. It would have worked, if it weren't for a cold and curdling thing in his stomach spreading like gangrene, that was telling him not to look away from what scared him. He'd forfeited that privilege long ago, and so he examined her, and saw some ways into the future. Her's. All had one specificity in common. He yanked his hand back from her face as if it'd burn her.

"I am blinding you," he said suddenly. She startled, just a bit.

"What?"

"I have foreseen it."

She paused, sighed, and again tried to assure him.

"Be at ease, dearest. _You_ are not doing anything to me."

"What else could cause that in something like you? What but millennia of _exposure--_ "

"My Wyrm--"

Of course she hadn't told him, it didn't matter so much _what_ was happening as it mattered that it was _his_ fault. He'd been blind for much of his own life, and before she'd been the White Lady, she'd been a being that sensed the world in ways nothing like how mortal bugs interacted with it. For either of them to lose a sense or two at this point wouldn't particularly be any sort of tragedy, especially with the end of the Old Light allowing for the King to again focus on pet projects like general accessibility for his City. There were so many very different kinds of creatures that made up his populace.

No, what mattered was that once again, he was _taking something away_ from her. He might be _hurting_ her again, this time physically. Might have been since the moment she'd given herself eyes to lay upon him, and she'd just gotten used to the pain of it. And what could he even _do_ about this? Would it have been better to stay away, and continue allowing her isolation in the gardens back when she'd wanted nothing to do with him? Would she want anything to do with him at all anymore, once his light meant nothing to her? Part of him, the part that made him try so very hard to impress her when he'd been young and stupid, still thought that maybe she only loved him for the Wyrmsglow. He knew _objectively_ that this was false; she was certainly not so pathetic a god to fall into another's thrall and stay there. 

But at the same time, what else had he to offer her _now?_ They had a past that still caused her as many nightmares as it caused him, possibly _more_ , because _she_ had been the one to bear the seeds, and she'd had no choice but to accept a raving despot's last desperate scheme, concede to his hubris, though he did everything he could to make sure that she'd never actually watched it in action, never handled that malignant non-substance that had been his toxin of choice to make himself kinslayer, letting it corrupt him outside-in like he corrupted them from inside-out, and the song that sang through it sang through his veins now already sounded so much like the lullaby they'd played at the nursery so long ago, and had the children heard it too? Heard it from within the egg while King-Creator-Progenitor-Almighty heard it whenever he was not careful not grounded and remembering no matter how tall the lighthouse how many generations of lumaflies bred and soul-infused the beacon could never penetrate the sea because there was nothing _to_ penetrate, no misasma no space between molecules no sea only a vacuum inverted in its disguise but a vacuum that wanted him back, _wanted_ through force of will fractured but hateful-fearful-remorseful-painful by the countless souls of the damned because _He_ had damned them, he and she together but it had been He who sought His means and built His ends built a city under the heaving ceiling of a lake built a cemetery for the tribe of lightseeker unfaithfuls struck down by their sun-mother built an egg made of that same soul-insoluable poison crystalized and made substance through years and years of alchemical trial and error and now seeing it brings only terror because he sees it given form and solidity and imagines the void that doubtlessly lives within him now and swims through his approximation of hemolymph like a parasite germ might too solidify might make a rictus cathedral from his still-living carapace for itself because he has tried, and he has tried, and he has _tried_ , but the Black Egg has not been destroyed no matter how he ordered it bulldozed or pulverized or detonated or how he opened fire upon it with his own concentrated soul over and over and over and over and over and over until his body went dim and his kingdom quaked _it_ _still stands it still waits for him to condemn his final child the final soul he would gift the abyss with his own two hands already diseased by it they are a missing note in its tremendous looping hymn sung by a choir made of only the unwanted little angels and it sings for father and child both, my love, can you hear it too?_

* * *

The Pale King was certain that he must have suddenly gone blind himself. Sensation returned to him at a trickle, accompanied by the sweet song behind his eyes finally fading. It was replaced by a ringing in his head that lingered a minute before it too eventually faded, itself replaced by a different song that he felt more than heard. The low, near buzzing sensation of a hummed tune, felt from his place pressed securely into the chest of its vocalist. He focused on it. He found he could half remember it if he really tried, it'd been some little holiday song that was quite popular a few centuries back, now all but forgotten by current generations. 

His Root had apparently sat them back up at some point. His arms were limp and leaden at his sides. They went up to again wind around her at his bidding, though they moved sluggishly through pins and needles. His hands clutched at the back of her nightgown, though he immediately felt guilty about wrinkling it, and minded his claws. 

Awareness of his breathing came next. Short, wobbly, and wet. Embarrassment struck him at the realization much in the way any projectile would: awful upon impact, but effectively over in an instant. For if he was not able to cry around _her_ , then he was not able to cry at all. (Claws or not, the nightgown was probably already ruined, then.)

He couldn't be sure what would come if he tried to speak, or if he pulled back to look at his wife. The thought of consulting his foresight made him feel ill. And so another selfish moment of comfort in her arms it was, then. Just _one_ more moment, and then he could ask about what he might have said, or what he'd done without awareness, or how long he'd been in whatever state overcame him, or anything else from the host of questions he had that needed answers. All despite the bone-deep exhaustion that made the thought of doing anything that was not laying back down and curling up with the _first_ light of his life sound like a _monumental_ effort. Just one more moment. 

When he did finally pull away, he saw the spot in her nightgown where his face had been buried now sported a stain of murky grey.

* * *

It seemed neither of them would get to sleep anytime soon. The White Lady had watched her Wyrm fall to a strange fit, almost like the ones that would plague him as he tried to figure out how to quash the Old Light. 

Almost. The black substance leaking from his eyes as unrestrained tears while he'd… _monologued_ was definitely new, as was the subsequent coughing fit that also expelled more of the substance onto his thorax, and onto the sheets. To say that it had all been _alarming_ would be something of an understatement. 

She knew that neither of them particularly wanted to talk about it. She also knew that they had to. They probably had a _lot_ to talk about. So she figured they may as well get comfortable. After he cleaned the substance off himself, it took almost no prompting to convince him to help rearrange their elegant bedding into a rumpled, cozy little nest of more sheets and pillows. They rested against the edge of it together, curled up at each other's sides. Her nightgown and the ruined sheet had simply been discarded without a word. 

He played with her hand in his. She always found that it helped him to fiddle with something in his hands when he was disquieted, or when he could use some anchor to get through the next task before him. The Lady had always found his incapacity for stillness to be charming, especially in the face of that reputation for monolith stoicism his higher beings so quickly claimed for him. He had both foresight and eternity at his disposal, and yet he always acted with an urgency like he never had enough time to do what he wanted done. 

At least, they'd always _thought_ the both of them would have eternity. 

Now, though, absolutely nothing was certain. Nothing was promised. Not if the living soul of Hallownest himself was somehow _diseased_. 

He laced their fingers together, and breathed a deep, steady breath with his still-functioning respiratory system, looked at her with eyes that still moved and examined and freely showed her his feelings, and spoke with the ever-quiet and temperate voice of his that could still form words. He still lived. 

"Did I lash out at you?" He asked, subdued to a hush by obvious fatigue. 

"No. You merely seemed to freeze up and again become distant, before you began muttering." The Lady kept her own tone as low and as without inflection as she could, without letting it dip into coldness. "Before you did, I thought I might have accidentally hurt _you._ "

"You could only harm me if you ever truly wanted me harmed," he intoned, claws tapping at the back of her own. 

"Even so, it is of no cost to me to be gentle when I do _not_ wish harm."

"Even so," he repeated without finishing.

The Lady, fearing that she may again lose him if she waited any longer, asked her first question.

"My Wyrm. You have… not been back to the _abyss_ , have you?"

"No. Not once."

"You spoke of it. And as if it were a thing close to you. And that… substance..." 

She wasn't quite sure how to finish that thought. Wasn't sure how to bring up if it was that faux-fluid thing that saps life and light. The same that he'd manipulated when he intubated their eggs with his own two hands in their chosen birthplace. 

Two instincts had warred within her upon seeing it. One, to recoil and flee. And the other, to comfort her distressed mate. Thankfully, his tears ultimately hadn't felt like anything beyond cold water. She could not say for sure how she might have proceeded had they _burned_ , or something.

"It… it can't be that. Were it _void,_ it should have long since festered, and..." he spoke with a little less confidence than was comfortable. She took his chin in hand, gently bidding his attention, and responded with the certainty that he couldn't.

"Then it is not." 

It seemed to work easily enough. He nodded, slow, with an exhale.

"...It is not," he repeated, just a bit more assured. The two nestled a little closer together, then. As nice as it would have been to leave the conversation at that, they knew better by now. So she asked, "But whatever it is, does it… _occupy_ you?" She sort of had to search for the right word. (One that was pointedly not "infect".)

He had to think on his answer. That silence would have been enough for her, but it would not be for him. The Lady often thought both her Wyrm and the Teacher shared a type of curiosity that was perhaps a bit extreme for polite society, and so she was utterly unsurprised to see him satisfy it by slicing apart a bit of flesh between his knuckle plating with a claw, and watching the little stream of blood that trailed down his hand from the wound. The approximate hemolymph itself appeared perfectly normal, for what it was. Tiny motes of soul came loose, barely visible to the eye, and fizzled out inches away. Also normal.

Both laid there and mutely watched the king bleed for a second, which turned uncomfortably into a few more. He was staring rather intensely at his own hemolymph. The Lady quickly decided she'd had enough of that, and reached out to heal the wound herself if he wouldn't. He jerked his hand back away from her again, startling them both.

"...Do not touch it," he all but pleaded. She blinked, and kept her tone slow.

"...You will get blood on the sheets."

"Look at it. This is not _blood_." 

"...Is it not?"

" _Look_ at it. It is _black._ "

A more frantic note had revealed itself in his voice. The Lady measured her breathing. 

"... It is not. My Wyrm, I implore you, steady yourself and look again."

The flicker of half-wild panic in his eyes faded into confusion. She watched him stare at his wound for another beat, before it sealed shut with a paltry flash of soul, the leftover blood on his arm dissipating back into the essence that made it. The Lady could not tell one way or another whether he actually saw what she did, or if he'd simply had enough of whatever awful thing he _did_ see. 

"... Whatever is," he cleared the leftover quiver from his throat, "Whatever is _wrong_ with me, it may not be physical in origin."

"That would make sense. There is little of a physical nature that could lay the gods low."

The mind of one, though, was a powerful thing. There was every chance that if he _thought_ there was something wrong with him, then there would be.

"Whatever manifests, then, must be from… from a _curse,_ or an…" he scrunched his fangs before the word in pure displeasure, "an _infection_ of the memory."

"Trauma," she summarized. That distaste on his face only deepened. 

"Surely it is nothing so mundane."

"... My Wyrm, the physical is one thing, but even _we_ are not immune to the intricate plights of the mind. One would assume a being so intertwined with the concepts of mind and soul might understand that."

"...I did not say I was immune," he said in the tone of a being who very much _wanted_ to be, "but that… _spell,_ of mine-- it hadn't felt _natural._ "

He was insistent, his thumb rubbing restless circles in the back of her hand. Wings twitching. Seeing him so rattled brought some unpleasant memories to the Lady herself, though she'd not try to quiet him, now, while he tried to talk through it.

"I barely felt conscious. I felt as if this body meant to drown me. It was _nightmarish_."

There was a beat, and then the two looked at each other, seeming to come to the same idea. She was the first to voice it.

"... You do not think... for how long he has been allowed to intrude, perhaps, his influence...?"

"He couldn't _infect_ me. The _Old Light_ even couldn't, and she was their better."

"One god can still graze another, even if only indirectly. Even if he hasn't _caused_ anything, could the Heart not _exacerbate_ something unpleasant already within you, in theory?" The Lady implored.

He stared again at where the wound had been, hand flexing uncomfortably.

"... If it might be a solution, I may do well to seek it out early. An audience with _him_ might at least offer answers." His voice was more of a sigh. The Lady found herself near bristling, unwillingly understanding the implications.

"... You will visit the circus, then?" She tried.

He scrubbed a hand down his mask. Not the one he scrutinized.

"No."

Both sat together in reluctant silence. And then the Lady spoke again, with the quiet resolve of one ready to brave the wilderness.

"... When shall we go?"

The King stared at her.

"...I will go alone."

"You will not. He may mean you peril." She returned his scrutiny.

"He is unfinished. There is little danger to me while that realm's King yet remains formless."

"Not if it _is_ his influence that plagues you. And even if not, you are still _unwell._ "

"My Root, whatever this is, it is _my_ burden alone to--"

"My Wyrm," she interrupted, voice controlled down to only the space between them.

"I beseech you take some time to _think_ , before you finish that sentence."

He did. And as she expected, he apparently decided against finishing it altogether.

"... I love you," he said instead, quiet against the sheets.

"I love you, too."

They shared a kiss, and he lingered, seeming to choose his words carefully.

"... We should go tonight. Soon."

The Lady understood quickly enough, with the way her husband curled close.

"Soon," she agreed. "But not now, then."

"... Just another moment."

"Of course."

* * *

The ritual to call upon the Nightmare Realm, and to lucidly walk among it in the tight spaces between reality in which it existed, was a relatively simple one. A bit of fire, a bit of blood, and a bit of sleep. Of the blood, the Lady volunteered her own, and would not hear a single word of argument against it. Neither particularly wanted a repeat of how his own had disturbed him, and they could not discount the risk of fudging the ritual if it really _was_ tainted. At any rate, for beings such as them, a mere drop would be more than sufficient. 

The beckoning was cast, the fire lit and blazing scarlet, and the King eyed their makeshift nest with open distaste.

"There is little sense in putting it off, now. We'll not be getting any more rest at all tonight," she reasoned. 

No one in the palace would, come to think of it. The Lady made a mental note to have someone discourage Hollow from sleep tonight, and then warn the staff. The nightmares wouldn't be pleasant for those who tried to rest too close.

"... The Heart's cage is a ghastly place," the King complained.

"Which is precisely why you will not go alone."

"It would be alright, my lady. I have seen worse."

She could have laughed. 

"I do hope you do not consider that a reasonable argument."

"I would prefer that _you_ never have to suffer ghastly places. You are averse enough to lands outside your own as it is."

"This is true. But it is my decision."

"So it is."

The two climbed back into bed together. Sleep would come all too easily, under the percussive lullaby of a distant heartbeat. It was not necessary for them to again get comfortable, or to embrace. They did so anyway.

* * *

The Heart was all at once thundering. It beat as though it came from both all around existence, and from inside of the White Lady's own manufactured shell. The sensation was almost familiar, vaguely reminiscent of how she had felt upon first twisting herself from a thing vast and sprawling to a relatively tiny creature, with all the pumping and flowing of strange new inner workings she has since gotten so used to. 

The pulse-pound present within her now, though, would remain uncomfortable. Each beat felt as though it sent a surge of hot oil through overworked veins, alchemized unwillingly from somewhere inside herself. It seemed that she was not particularly welcome here. That would have to be fine. 

She could sense her husband nearby, but sight was coming very slowly through the thick, scarlet haze. She saw the Heart first, a mere silhouette that appeared at least a day’s distance away. Odd, for how dark this place was. Neither her light nor his broke through it. The Lady was hesitant to try. 

The King, though, quickly seemed to grow weary enough of the dark to let himself shine. And as soon as he did, the realm _quaked_ under the heart's thrum, and both stood their ground through the pain.

" _Timid creations of the soil. State your purpose here_."

The voice was Grimm's, though more sickly than even his normal rasp, more the rattle of a thing on its deathbed. The source was imperceptible, as much inside their own heads and all around as the beating of the Heart, to which he was a mouthpiece. 

Even in his own dream, the Nightmare King was naught but a red shade. Unknown and shifting, at turns all claws and teeth and curling wings and smoke. It was bigger than it should be, and it warped to the pulse around them like sand in a drum. 

"We come in response to your own perceived intrusion. A nightmare ingrained, strengthened to an unmanageable degree without permission. I bid you to release it," the Pale King spoke coolly.

The nebulous thing that would one day be the Nightmare King inched closer to her Wyrm, becoming many eyes and then none.

" _We respect the borders between claims. Dear things of earth and strife, you are the only intruders here."_

The Lady stepped forward.

"A dream deployed into the mind, one strong enough to resemble a sickness. Such a thing sounds familiar, does it not?" 

It turned its wretched attention onto her, and the lady thought the Nightmare Heart suddenly seemed closer than it had. 

" _Perhaps when we were whole, what you accuse would have been possible. Our dearest light alone, now long dead, could not influence you. You lie impressively, to believe what is only Dream’s cardiectomy could achieve what its Radiance could not."_

A flash of what was almost a face passed over the shade. 

"What, then?" The King persisted, voice controlled down to something scarcely above a whisper. It was a wonder either of them could hear it over the percussion.

"What lingers in my mind that would be so foreign, my body attempts to expel it?"

The smoking wisp of Grimm circled the King, flickering points of claws flitting in and out of it in the areas where it was nearly close enough to touch him.

" _Your dreams are diseased. Not by us. He who fills our vessel keeps his distance from you, for how your past repulses him."_

Two faces for a moment, bubbling over each other, then back to none, a claw now extending from where they were. The King did not move.

_"Even as your terror would feed us well. Desecrated though it is."_

The Lady stepped forward through the discomfort, standing tall, projecting no indication she was in any particular rush. 

"Do not touch him." 

Her Wyrm stared at her, alarmed, and the unfinished Nightmare lazily drifted back away from him. The Heart thrummed ever closer.

" _Her fear for him, and his for her. Thy glut of offerings to this place, from ones who style themselves as holy._ " Its form hummed, seemed to lap at the air with pronged tongues. Her Wyrm watched it, gaze furrowed.

"... Vile thing. It is clear that you can do as little to us as we can to you," he spoke, with just a bit more power to his voice.

"And it will be quite a while until you _can_ , for the feeble crawl at which your vessel now collects nightmare for his successor."

"It is almost as if he deliberately delays his fate,” the Lady added, clipped with distaste. “Though, it matters little, does it not? His condition shall forever be terminal, either way.”

The shade took a nearly perceptible silhouette, now, one that stood deathly still in a way that disagreed with how the rest of it slipped around its shape.

" _Indeed. Pace matters not. For his death, we shall persist. We turn with the cycle of ending and renewal. None shall be immune to time. Least of all, a reign. Yours will end with you."_

"Your threat is noted," her Wyrm muttered back.

_"Dear thing, whose rapid consumption was ordained by his own hand: we deliver no threat of our own."_

A brief pause, in which the Heart pounded away, now nearly on top of them. The Lady wondered if it might jostle their shells from their flesh.

"...Consumption. By _what?"_ He pressed.

...

"Answer me. _Now."_

…

"By your _desecrated heart,_ you _will--"_

"Darling. Please, stop feeding it."

It wasn't a very fair request, neither of them could actually help doing that. But he stilled mid-step, at least saved from advancing upon the immaterial nightmare of Grimm. It hissed on, through sharpened smoke and churning teeth.

 _"Through powers fueled by dreams discarded, our shell lives on,_ forever terminal _. But dear thing. Your shell lives on, fueled by what you yourself ignite. What you yourself give and deem as higher existence, cherished mind, precious soul. What feeds upon them now, o dear, squamous thing, takes the shape upon your own clothes, upon your own hands, within your own brain, as handprints. Small. Cold. Pitch. Handprints of children. For they_ were _children."_

Both were still, and listened to it speak. Though the Lady very much wanted not to. She had to quash the selfish wish that she'd not come here after all. She expected her husband to say something, to seek more succinct confirmation that what plagued him _was_ a curse of the abyss, or even to deny its claims, but she looked at him and saw him staring out into the mist. There appeared to be something far below them, over an edge that had not been there before. So on the thing raved.

" _Clawing, straining, robbed of any other way to voice their terror, not learned the words to ask why even otherwise. What you have decreed, and then enacted, is grotesque. And you know it. For they were children._ "

The Lady had little fondness for Grimm, but she found she preferred the currently-living iteration of him for his manner of speech. This amalgam of him spoke with none of his theatrical mystique, or self-satisfied sneer. 

It only sounded like it _hated_ them, down to the core.

She saw, over the edge, that they were surrounded. By darkness so complete that it swallowed the red entirely in a bottomless pit.

Only, the pit was _writhing._ The Lady peered a bit closer. Little forms, clawing and straining, up at them, where the two were stranded on a tiny island of floating ground, alone, not nearly as far above it as she thought. The shade was gone, but the heart was so close she could reach up and touch a throbbing vein, if she wished.

 _"It is not their own regrets that yet force them to linger,_ for they were only children _. It is_ **yours** _that taint the soul and boil the sea, that keep them from peace. And it is those regrets that the abyss clings to like a parasite within you, that now feast upon you, that make_ **you** _terminal. They are restless. It devours. And it all sings to you in your own voice, what you might have once sung to them, had you ordained that the both of you might love them."_

The White Lady knew exactly how many clutches were tossed into the abyss. 

So _this_ is how it had looked down there.

She could go blind this very instant, and then live another million years. Yet still, she knew, the sight would never leave her. 

Nor would the sound, when she stepped back, and a tiny chitin mask was crushed beneath her foot, the act breaking one gaping, jagged crater in the center of its face, where its eyes would have been.

(No cry would leave her throat. No voice would leave her here, no matter how she tried.)

_"For they were children."_

She looked on to see her husband, staring over the edge, crumpled. Precariously knelt, only a shifting of weight away from falling into the sea. 

She understood now more than ever before, how he wanted to. 

The White Lady reached out to the divine bonds that tethered her to her land, to her home, and to her true self, and she _yanked._

* * *

The dream dissipated in an abrupt flash of light and essence, and the two awoke in their beds. The Lady was slow to again sit up, as was the King. She touched her face, and found her eyes wet. Her husband looked at her and let out an unhappy chirr at the sight, all open, fretful instinct, as he reached out to help wipe the tears away. As if they weren't flowing freely from his own face, too.

And they weren't murky with void, this time. They were now as pale and glowing as the rest of him, just as normal. 

"My Root," he said, like an apology.

"When I see the Nightmare's vessel again," she began, low and a tad too quiet, "I am going to personally see to it that his foul Heart _bleeds_."

He blinked, sending heavy tears quickly down his mask. He peered down where they landed on him, and let out a shuddering sigh, bone-tired. 

"That was not him, yet," he pointed out, rubbing away his own tears with a nearby blanket. He watched their faint glow fade from the fabric, with only numb curiosity on his face.

"Such detestable creatures, either way. Spewing nothing but lies and terror, tainting the mind as they do."

She knew he was again watching her, but wouldn't meet his gaze, resolutely keeping her own on the embers of the summoning flame leftover in the fireplace.

"... He does not lie," he nearly whispered. 

"He must. For he spoke of you as if you would _die."_

"..."  
A breath.

“I think… I have known that I will, for some time now. I think I have… I think I knew. I’m so, so sorry, my love, for bringing you to that place. For making you see what you did. It had not been necessary.”

“No,” she stopped him, “I believe it still had been.”

He followed her gaze to the fireplace, and then both were silent. He kept still, his hands folded in his lap. She blinked an errant cloud from her vision. 

Now, things like them _could_ die. It just wasn't likely. Some gods outlived their powers and lay dormant, not quite dead, but little more than slumbering statues of themselves. Some were killed by others of their kind, as had happened to the Old Light. Some even gave up their divinity willingly, divesting their powers into some great final act, or to a large swath of land in a world-altering display of power, to then either be left mortal or be left nothing. 

Those were only some examples. A thing like the _Root_ could even fall to a blight and die, like any sort of crop that could meet extinction that way. She was already to one day lose her sight. Perhaps this form would simply fail her, after enough millennia, and she'd not have enough energy left to return to her former glory.

How long did _he_ have left, poisoned as he apparently was? 

"... Have you looked very far ahead?" ‘How far will you live with certainty’, she did not ask.

"... These days, I find myself averse to doing so. At any rate, the further ahead I go, the broader and more numerous the possibilities. It is simply not practical."

There was another beat of silence, and then he added in a softer voice,

"I know I will still exist for some years, at least."

"How far have you checked?" 

"Hornet's coronation," he answered, wistful. "It is most likely to occur as her mother planned, when she grows into the sharp young warrior she is all but destined to be.” 

He tilted his head a bit, chewing on some thought.

“…The _earliest_ instance of her possible crowning is actually quite soon, but there is little chance of Herrah _actually_ falling to any accident. Especially with how I've already warned her to take care this hunting season."

"That is agreeable. That Herrah can be Queen yet longer, and Hornet can be a child yet longer."

He paused, then nodded, once, solemn.

…The _children_.

"...The children. What will we tell them?" She inquired, low and slow enough that it was a little too obvious that she was trying not to startle him.

It didn't work, at any rate. The King snapped up to attention, rigid, wings almost flaring. 

"We _can't_ tell them. We cannot-- not now. Please," he implored her. As if it were her decision.

"...If that is what you wish, it is _your_ fate we discuss. If you do not want to tell them, we will not," she soothed. Less gentle, more steady. And he appeared to cling to that, relaxing by increments. 

"... Alright."

"But I still might ask why. The Princess is yet a youngling, but she understands death. The Princeling would pity you. Keeping your condition a secret may risk consequences if either finds out on their own," she urged.

"I. It is not…" he trailed off, now only looking down at his hands. They were disconcertingly still under his gaze.

"... We can wait upon a reason, until you yourself have had the time to come to terms with this," she assented. 

If he ever _did_ . Time was not supposed to mean very much to either of them. But then again, this would not be the _first_ crisis in his life wherein he felt he was racing against time for his existence. And just _one_ had already all but broken him.

(She had no idea how he had seen what he did at the abyss, and survived the grief of it. She supposed, though, it turned out that he wouldn't.)

"I can fix it," his voice got her attention. "If it is-- if it is a toxin, a consumption, even if it is of _me_ , it is also of an abyssal influence, and I may be able to purge it. I need only to plan. I already have the tools, I need only--"

"My Wyrm," she stopped him, but not before the frenetic tone he'd taken on alarmed her. He blinked up.

"You sound precisely the way you had," she spoke tonelessly, "when it had been the _Old Light_ that first threatened you."

A few things passed over his expression. It finally settled on lost, and open misery. 

"... Blighted or no," he began,

"...You would not survive that life again," she finished.

Guilt would keep him still, and he would not reach for her. For the first time in years, she was not sure if she should do so in turn. Not sure if it would help, or if it would worsen how he felt.

This was new territory. Neither thought that any of that would be left between them, after such a long companionship. And, between the two of them, _she_ was not the more sensitive one. Her sociability and confidence had earned her a flattering reputation, and his quiet and penchant for solitude had earned him an alien one, but there was never full truth in the version of a being that existed in a person’s head. In the grand scope, they were both monsters, and of the very worst sorts. In this tiny one, however, their bedroom, _he_ had the gentler hand, grievously unpracticed though it was. Few things about running a kingdom, or being a Wyrm, really, allowed for gentleness. He would likely never get the hang of it.

And so the Lady only proffered her hand, hovered an inch away from his cheek, for him to pull away from if needed. He leaned into the offer of touch, and then found it within him to speak again.

"...She will come to hate me, for what I have done, and what I am not, no matter what. Our daughter. It would be inadvisable to tell her, would it not…?" 

She let him speak, recognizing the tone of one working through their thoughts out loud. 

"She could use the knowledge as an advantage. From blackmail to usurpation, many new opportunities would be opened to her by virtue of a newly mortal sire. I do not know that she would truly _take_ any, but they would be there. More so if she informs her mother. Or the Hive Queen. The friendly relations and intimate past of two queens would make them genuinely dangerous to our realm, if they were to unite."

The Lady only nodded. Let him speak first as a King, and then downright _saw_ the change in him when he shifted into speaking as a father. Eyes, posture, and tone all growing a touch less secure.

"... And beyond that. Even if she'd have nothing material to gain, telling her would still be a disservice to _her_ . She will hate me. She is already wary of me. This would only pressure her to… to _pity_ me, as you said. If she would care at all. I find that I would prefer it if she did not. If I might one day expire with her having put as much distance as she would like between us, it would at least be better for the fact that my death would not burden her. Distance is for the best. Especially now. I'll not interfere with that."

She blinked, then, and spoke up before thinking much of it.

"...My Wyrm. Are you speaking of withholding affection for your daughter, as if that is a mercy, or as if it would make you a martyr?"

It was like a switch flicking on. A rather dusty one. He looked at her with utter bewilderment.

"...That… that isn't necessarily what I…"

"It is precisely what you said. 'Distance is best,' from a being who long ago agreed to be a caregiver, who long ago agreed to begin taking responsibility," she stated.

He was still. Staring at her like he was caught. The same exact eyes Hornet had when she was found standing atop the highest cupboards in the kitchen, a jar of sweets belonging to the chef in her hands. The Lady stared back, projecting that same aura of disapproval as she did when she had been the one to _catch_ the spider in the act.

The Queen took her King's shoulders under her hands, and shook him. Just a bit. 

"Ack--!"

" _My Wyrm,"_

 _"_ I--"

"That is _not_ how this arrangement was meant to work."

"I know--"

"Do you? Because you sound as though you would be content to be a stranger to your own daughter, when we both know that to be false."

"..."

"I often hear of how you worry for her. I frequently hear of how you boast about her. You love your children, and it is best that you take care to act as such."

He had a hand light upon her wrist, reflexive, and could not meet her eyes for very long. 

Shame was a terrible look on him. The Lady had seen really very many unbefitting things from the King tonight, and was beginning to find the trend rather tiresome.

"... You have been spending much time with Herrah," was his awkward response.

"We have our weekly visits. The Queen of Deepenest is a wise creature, and is more than generous with sharing her beliefs," she responded, with perhaps a hint of satisfaction.

"... You are-- you're right. I know-- I know that you are _right_ ," he let out in a breath.

"But I… I still do not know if I should tell her."

"...That in itself is fair."

"... How does one begin to…?" 

That faraway, uncertain look again. The bug could get lost in his own home. Probably has, in fact.

"...One thing at a time, I suppose," she relented, releasing him. He again met her eyes. She probably looked tired. And maybe even still frustrated with him. It was already such a long night, and she didn’t particularly care to spare any airs of queenly serenity her faithful liked to describe her with. It had been a _long_ goddamned night.

And yet now he was looking at her like she hung the moon. Ridiculous, given the circumstances. But learning of your own mortal wasting sickness was a heavy thing, and she could understand if his emotions were simply flinging him about every which way right now. He had a hard enough time working with them when he let himself feel them on a _normal_ day.

"...Yes?" The Lady prompted.

"...I. Thank you."

"...For _shaking you?"_

"For… for staying. I know it was... not easy. _I_ did not make it easy. I know how you wanted to run, for I had, as well, and now I worry I may grow accustomed to you saving me. As you had from the Heart," he gave the tail end of his speech almost in a rush. She knew what else she'd been a part in saving him from, no matter how he avoided saying it.

"The frequent need to be saved is an exceedingly poor habit for one to keep," he went on in a tired huff.

"...I would agree with that. As lovely a _damsel_ as you’d make, I find I prefer your confidence. And our thriving," she went along, diplomatically. The slight ghost of a smile in his eyes was refreshing. And undoubtedly adoring.

Saving him once or twice wasn't all _that_ much of an inconvenience, she thought.

"I will keep that in mind, my lady."

She relaxed a bit, herself. And spoke with just a bit more reverence, recalling where they were. 

"...It was not such a difficult choice, you know. And despite what you seem to believe, it only became easier with time. These years together have been…"

"Unimaginable," he finished.

"Yet so little time shared."

With a profoundly light touch, he guided them both to lie back down. For closeness, only. Sleep would not come.

"...Will you take your time?" He voiced, suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"After… me."

The question was only curious, safe as an abstract while he was still alive and relatively healthy, but still he seemed to regret it quickly enough that he spoke next with some haste.

"I know not what will become of the kingdom-- we will have to plan for that, I believe, at some point. And I do still believe it would be a good job to look into what could be done about the abyss-- it is-- I can no longer avoid it, it seems."

"My Wyrm."

"But-- that is, after all that, it is impossible that you wouldn't easily make life agreeable to you again, once on your own. Should you extend your reach a bit, or show them all a bit more of your heart, I know you'd find suitable worship from both our own higher beings, and perhaps even from those that may come in from beyond our borders."

He was rambling. And in doing so, he took her wrist in his claws, feather-light, as he continued.

"When that happens, I imagine-- if you would want-- you'd be able to. To. To find _love_ again without much trouble, once a being that meets your standards finds you here. Should you care to make the effort again."

A thumb pressed at the flesh between the plates at her hand and wrist. Searching for a pulse, perhaps. She considered him for a brief second, unreadable.

"I had made no effort the first time."

"I know. ...But if you were happy, with me, I'd only want for you to be so again. Were it your solitude again that you wished for, or to give your heart to another, even _now_ , I could not deny you anything."

"I know, love. There is no need to speak as if you are already gone. Right now, you are here. And you are mine."

"...Right now."

There was another damnable silence. A note of moroseness hung in the air, and the Lady wanted to strangle it. She was not a being of prophecy like the Wyrm. She had the moment and the moment only, and in this one, her husband still lived. In this one, she'd chosen to return home. Her decision to leave had already wasted so much of her own time, and so much of her surviving child's. It was not extraordinarily pleasant to learn that she had also wasted the time of someone else important who apparently would have a limited amount of it. 

This was not fair. The world has never been fair, but wasn't it the shared responsibility of herself and her Wyrm to try to make it just a bit _more_ so, when they could? Were they not sovereigns? Were they not also parents, and therefore meant to pass along the world to their children in a better state than they'd entered it? She rather liked the world better with her little family in it, than without.

And now she was all but _brooding_ , a tendency that was usually reserved for her Wyrm. He was actually doing it now, by the distant way he stared at his claws so close to what should have been her veins, but ended up closer to xylem in her diminished shell.

She sighed, and took his jaw in her hands, making him look up at her. His vision seemed to clear in his focus on her.

"Speak only the truth, my Wyrm. Right now, you are mine."

"Always," he corrected.

"And I am yours."

"...Right now."

"Does the idea bother you?"

He couldn't hide his sulking, not so close, even if he tried. Her Wyrm seemed to find such shame, these days, in his old draconic instinct to possess. Perhaps the tragedy of the Old Light had somewhat tempered his ambition, or perhaps he simply wanted to forget that he would have once been described as a monster in only the literal sense. 

But the Lady held no such predilection to hold herself back. Her response was to kiss him, and to allow the sharp ends of the hands she'd formed for herself to press into the softer juncture between mandible and throat with a bit more pressure. Never to bring harm, of course. Her claim to him was plenty secure with the gentlest reminder. They were gods; autocrats of their respective realms. The way she saw it, possessiveness was well ingrained into both of their natures. Just look what horrors were wrought upon the world when a being like them thought it was being stolen from, or felt any envy or insecurity about its seat of power. Nasty things, only.

Logically, he was right. He had no say over what she did with her heart and self once he was gone. But as always, it was _now_ that mattered. They both needed to remember _now_ , and that sometimes meant a bit of indulgence. 

She pulled back, and he tried to chase her, only barely stopping short to let her speak.

"Discard any ideas of imbalance about our union. The idea of finding another bores me, with you right _here_. Lightning striking the City nearly has a higher likelihood of happening, than any like us finding what we had found in each other so long ago. Seeking it twice in a lifetime seems something of a chore, does it not?" She was already quite acclimated to what they had. 

(It will be hell to lose it, but there will still be the memories. And these, she would recall in joy, not to punish herself.)

"... Lightning underground," he finally questioned.

"With the teacher's new research centers cropping up, and with those who continue the soul sanctum's work in secret whom Dryya has yet to track down, there is a non-zero chance of that coming to pass. And likely by accident," the Lady reasoned.

He huffed, a bit of that listlessness leaving him, only briefly. Just until he again focused on her eyes, and then he pulled away from her on his own accord.

"... Do you truly believe there is another reason why your vision fades?" He finally asked. The Lady hummed, only pensive.

"Time, maybe. If not that, perhaps the eventual dulling of a sense or two was simply due to an oversight of mine, in crafting this body. Soul manipulation is your talent for this sort of thing, not mine," she thought out loud. She truly _hadn't_ given it much thought at all, before her Wyrm had panicked over his perceived hand in her eventual blindness. She'd only known the world through her roots, before. It would be no trouble to live that way again, really, if time deigned to take the rest of her buglike senses one by one after sight. She thought her husband would have come to that same conclusion, but apparently he could still surprise her.

"... It does not hurt you, then?" The question was quiet even for him. Silly thing.

"There is nothing yet to hurt. I can attest that the cause is not by any physical trauma to my person."

"I… I meant _me_ , my Root. My light. None are meant to look upon it for such a long time. I could easily be the cause, or at least I could worsen it, or hasten the process." Words just a bit too slow, this time, rather than too fast, as though he was taking great care to actively incriminate himself before a judge. 

"You are not. If your daughter of photophobic lineage can still bear to _glare_ at you so often, then _I_ am certainly not even at risk for a headache," she reasoned, idly fussing with a stray cushion. He seemed to have no response to that for a minute. She decided not to let him overthink it.

"You have never physically hurt me. Not even once. Nor has your light, ever." She left no room in her tone for doubt. 

"No?"

"I promise."

"... Alright."

A nuzzle was shared between them, and the Lady resigned herself to an even drearier conversation topic.

"...The state of _my_ physical body is something that will affect me _eventually,_ whereas yours may need more immediate attention. May we speak of that… _episode_ , you had?"

It was actually a relief when his response was only one of embarrassment. This, she could handle.

"...We ought to," he assented.

"Come here, first," she soothed.

They readjusted some, against the pillows. The makeshift nest helped them along with getting comfortable, and the Lady thought about once again bringing up the idea of making this a more regular part of their sleeping arrangements. Most of the time, her Wyrm would complain about how mussing up their bedding this way struck him as childish, no matter how much better he seemed to sleep for it. The Lady shared no ancient instincts of a burrowing creature with him, but in her humble opinion, this system simply made for superior cuddling.

"Has that ever happened before?" She asked once they again laid down.

"...Not like that."

"How has it, then?"

"It is difficult to describe," he took on that odd, flat tone again. The one he got when he wasn't entirely grounded to himself. 

"The abyss calls me even here. I can hear it. Sometimes, it makes me _see_ it. It... _latches_ onto me-- it-- it _clings_ to the crevices in my mind, when I am not careful to curate my thoughts."

What an uncomfortable way of putting it. The Lady wondered how long he must have been dealing with this alone.

"Do you speak literally?"

"I don't know."

The swiftness in how he admitted that surprised her, no matter how tired either of them were.

"...I am afraid I would know less of the substance than you might, my Wyrm. Had I known better what you were dealing with, perhaps I might have done more than the basest research on it."

"It would not have helped. All there is to know is that it was once a vacuum, less than nothing. Less than the space the sea appears to take up, merely an _inversion_ of that. And when something like that is given a will, or any fragment of one, it can only _hunger_."

She took his hand again, and rubbed circles inside his palm, speaking evenly. 

"You said it sings to you."

"It sings because it _wants_. It calls for what it does not yet have, but has already tasted."

"You believe it calls you to devour you."

"It calls me to devour me, or destroy me, or tear me limb from limb, or love me. And if I do not answer it, the stain of it within me will simply spread and blot the light until it is extinguished. I fear for our child. I cannot hear what calls me from within them but I know it is the same. It may want them. It may seek to reunite. It knows them, and it knows you. It had a taste of your love, and that stolen memory is what rocks the children to sleep when they grow too restless. Do you remember the nursery?"

"Stop it." Her voice cut clear. The instinct to cease his rambling had come abruptly, and it had been frightening. He stiffened, and squeezed her hand once, apologetic. She noticed how cold it suddenly was. 

A thought occurred.

"...Your regrets, intensifying their wills, lending them power, all of them down there in the dark. And manifesting within you as if a sickness."

How familiar.

He appeared to think the same thing, if the brief panic that crossed his face gave her any indication. And then it faded into a sardonic bark of laughter, nearly startling her back. 

"Her ancient enemy. What I thought to use against her. And at the end of things, it will have been the only true winner between the three of us." His tone, at least, had a bit more life to it. An unsteady bit.

"I do not think it would rest even if I answered its call. Killing her was not enough. Killing me will not be. All of Hallownest, perhaps, would not be. Not if I am the one behind their insomnia. The shamans have an adage, on the stains regret can leave on the world. Mine would not be erased with me."

"You might have chosen a more agreeable way to inform me that you do not plan on flinging yourself into the void, my Wyrm."

He did not look at her, curling close, and more or less cuddling into the sheets. The act was a sudden and bittersweet reminder of how small he really was.

"I do not know what to do," he admitted.

One more unwelcome surprise for tonight's collection. He'd never _once_ said _that_ . Not even as the plague rose, and not even as he fumbled through his daughter's childhood. It was always "Here is what I _can_ do," or "I need to _know_ more," or "There is nothing _anyone_ can do."

Now, he was truly lost. Was it a good thing that he could finally admit it, for once? Or did it indicate a real lack of hope for the situation?

"I ruined your nightgown," the King blurted. "I apologize."

The Lady needed a second to process that, stilling where she'd been rubbing and soothing at the base of his upper wings. This would be a profoundly inappropriate time to laugh. She made sure not to.

"...You are forgiven. " Though, she wasn't spared from the incredulity coloring her tone. "My love, the _nightgown_ is the very least of our issues."

"That, though, I could start to _do_ something about, in apologizing," he pointed out, deeply tired.

"... I am proud of you, then, if you intend to take those issues one at a time."

He nodded, and began.

"The abyss. Unsealing it might prove dangerous. For me, and for those otherwise living near the basin."

"It would be sensible to leave it sealed, then."

"The lighthouse was a temporary solution to subduing its wrath, but only in one very concentrated area. It would not be feasible to make one big enough for that entire realm."

"Nor would it be a project with any ensured secrecy. It would be a supremely dangerous endeavor for the workers." It had proven too perilous to simply rescue the current lighthouse keeper's _corpse_. 

"... I will not be … _returning_ the Princeling, in any effort to unite a thing of fractured will."

"Absolutely not."

"There seem two ways to conceivably handle the… restless souls, below. Snuffing them out, somehow, or a re-unification of the whole of Void. I am… partial to the former, for how it would mean the dissolution of my own rue."

The Lady too was partial, but not hopeful. She knew her husband. He'd take his remorse to his grave, and beyond. They both would.

"And, because, unification could mean… awakening something. Something that would end us all, completely,” he went on.

"..."

 _Her_ ancient enemy, long dissolved. A thing primordial beyond the imagination of more grounded gods, itself an epoch in every movement. Only time and slumber could quell it. It would be beyond any of _them_ to try, and that is why the King had chosen to use a tiny part of it to handle _his_ old enemy. 

"Do not toy with that. Look at where doing so has already gotten you, in only dealing with an aberrant sludge of void's former self."

"I won't. I can't. It wants to be whole. I can't let it. I _can't_."

"Do not."

"I can't."

There really seemed so little to be done. So much out of their depth. Even for ones who style themselves as holy.

(Revenge was pointless and petty, but the Lady still wondered about seeking some on the Troupe Master. It hadn't been him, not entirely, so she would not be _too_ cruel in whatever she planned.)

"We'll not figure anything out tonight," she conceded. The King seemed far too exhausted to argue that point. They still had at least a few years, after all.

"We should not be getting any sleep, either. I could get up for the day."

"You could."

"... You would have to let go, my Root."

"I would."

"..."

"Forgive me, love. But I have recently been made privy to the knowledge that every moment with you may now be precious, in a new way that neither of us once thought possible."

A flutter of wingtips, his silent stare, and then a tired smile in his eyes, only briefly.

For all that she kept her expression level, his own… crumbled, she supposed, as the realization of his own mortality apparently _finally_ hit him for real, beyond only logically. As did all the terror and grief that came with it. 

He would not leave her arms that night, after all. And sleep would not threaten either of them, for how he wept, and how she soon joined him.

* * *

Morning would come slowly for the Pale Wyrm, and at the side of his Root. A starburst headache dead-center of the forehead would hinder him for the entire day. He wondered if it was a symptom of dehydration, but it stayed no matter how much water he drank. 

He was almost grateful for it, really. One small, earthly distraction from what he learned, and from the more malignant issues within him that may be his end. 

Would be. It had been frightening how quickly he'd accepted that. The King did not _want_ to die. And he would research for the rest of his life as needed for a way to put the abyss to peace. But his physical survival was only a secondary goal. Whether by a culling, or some other method, he had to cease the agonized song.

They hated him. Perhaps it really could be unified in killing him, if it shared that goal, and finally be at rest. It seemed unlikely, for how Hollow was a part of it, and how they were stubbornly insistent on loving their father. It probably would not be united without them. He would not let it take them. They had _earned_ the world. 

The world was not a thing to be earned. And that was just the problem, wasn't it? Just a facet of his monstrous selfishness, ( _Eternity in promise,_ ) inflicted onto what would have been children. ( _For they were children._ )

Living like this was going to get tiring. 

Perhaps death will be a mercy, if he could not figure out how to appease the sea. Of course, his lady and surviving children would not be particularly happy to hear him speak like that. 

They'd want him to live, now that he could. His lady and his subjects preferred it when he shone. No matter how the void sea could swallow Hallownest and everything within it whole, it was not the only thing with a call. In there, he would be a candle flame, snuffed without effort. Out here, he was a beacon. He was the guiding light.

Perhaps if he shone bright enough, extended his reach, called out the way _She_ once had, maybe he could attract something or someone disruptive enough to rock the futures he saw off the rail they were on. This was certainly beyond him, and beyond Hallownest. 

It was a stupid thought, and maybe a dangerous one.

But it felt _good_ to reach, to cry out into the wastes in the tongue of gods and monsters. It was in his nature to expand his influence; and if he attracted anything unsavory, he could say with certainty that he had dealt with _worse_ than whatever the outer world could throw at him.

And if he was very, very _, very_ lucky, he could attract another blessing. 

Mortality or no, nothing he could imagine out there could possibly compare with what he was lucky enough to already have gotten. He wasn't particularly holding out for another miracle.

Especially not from over the cliffs, where all that wandered was, frankly, wholly forgettable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone has any suggestions for what to listen to while writing please let me know all i had to go on for this were the animal crossing and skyrim soundtracks and every time the skyrim one played combat music i went into fight or flight mode and it was not super conducive to the Creative Process TM


	13. The Hallownest Hastiludes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is a kingdom without a few fairy tale clichés even really a kingdom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello this is 25k words of a self contained story type of chapter because i wanted to write a tournament as catharsis. goodbye stink year
> 
> to those who have been rude and weird at me in my inbox, no, ghost is not in this one so you can leave now  
> (to those anticipating ghost who are just excited and not straight up demanding, yeah yall got it right dont worry and this is not about you)
> 
> kay bye

In general, it'd been a dreary year. It began with an unseasonably late frost suddenly hitting the surface. The cold was brutal, and it decimated many hunting prospects as far down as the fungal wilds, as well as the pickier crops that normally flourished under natural sunlight. Bugs of hibernating species woke up to little available food and coped poorly with the chill, when they were unfortunate enough to wake up on schedule. 

Sickness came with the frost, and the surface population quickly spread it to the rest of the kingdom when they'd been forced to increase travel underground for food. The new scarcity and health anxiety sent some of the flightier shamans and zealots off on a trend of doomsaying, which was, at the very least, not particularly helpful. 

And just as things were stabilizing again, there was an earthquake. Nothing particularly fatal on its own, and only the shockwave of something more devastating far far away that Hallownest was unlucky enough to feel with any significance. But it had exposed some weaknesses in the City's infrastructure. As buildings came down, the rubble acted as dams along the city's already most flooded districts, and plugged up the waterways. Denizens of the lower levels flew and climbed in a hurry with only what they could carry as the water level rapidly rose, and homes, shops, schools, and livelihoods disappeared whole under the waterline, to re-emerge damaged or destroyed once it all finally drained. 

After that, it had taken nearly the entire guild of menderbugs several weeks just to get things running again, and countless were displaced from their homes. It had fallen directly upon the royal treasury to provide emergency relief aid to those that the slumlords had not gotten to first, right after the fact.

And naturally, the sudden backup in the waterways disturbed a massive nest of flukes within. Hoards of them emerged from all the new pits in the ground, confused and enraged by the noise and light, and commenced spreading further havoc. The local knights and sentries dispatched the bulk of the infestation quickly enough, but there would be stragglers terrorizing the already skittish population for months after the fact. And the _smell_ lingered nearly as long. 

The shaking had also ravaged farmlands along the border territories, leading to yet another food shortage there that had the King asking emergency supply aid from both Deepnest and the Hive to keep those counties fed. All well and good for the people who lived and worked there, but the missive had stung the egos of some of the local nobility up in their towers. Who themselves were _not_ so affected by the shortage, and thus could speak loudly and freely about how accepting aid from foreign powers was _humiliating_ the kingdom. Hallownest, after all, was the greatest civilization in the _world_ . Even when its people were starving, and sewer creatures roamed the streets. The Queen had put a stop to that sort of talk by suggesting that if the loudest of them were so abashed by the idea _foreign_ help, a simple alternative would be for the aristocracy to open their expansive homes to the displaced. Those who couldn't commit had at least been swift about shutting up, and the rest donated alms for the sake of appearances.

And speaking of the Queen, the recent seismic disturbance had left her feeling somewhat under the weather. Much of her true form was jostled from where its roots were sunk into the ground after uncounted centuries, and she privately described the experience to her husband as disorienting. Like she was still trying to get her bearings from a sudden fall straight through the ground, and was left dangling. For a time, she preferred to stay in their heavily ivied bedchamber, and then took to her gardens to recuperate. The King made it a point to carve out time in the chaos to periodically check up on her, and had asked her most trusted friends, her favored knight, and his children to do the same. It was imperative to him that his wife not suffer _isolation_ , on top of any physical pain the ordeal might have left her in that she would not admit to him. 

Also concerning the royal family as a private unit, things were… stressful.

Hollow had taken to pouring all their energy into the relief effort, often spearheading deliveries of food and supplies, and usually being among the workers to hand everything out. They'd even aided Hegemol with rescue and reconstruction, and had been out there helping rebuild homes under the guild's direction. This had been expected, for the King's eldest was a keenly sympathetic thing, and did not like to sit by if they thought anyone suffered. 

But that sympathy sometimes came at a cost to their own well-being. In the physical sense, they worked tirelessly, and were already far too familiar with the act of ignoring pain and fatigue when a task would push them past their limits. And in the emotional sense, they had insisted on providing direct aid to the hardest hit regions of the City. That meant witnessing the destruction firsthand, and seeing with their own eyes the ruined homes, the broken families, and the bodily damage sustained by those recovered from the rubble or dirty floodwater. The evacuation and rescue response had been quick enough to ensure the loss of life remained minimal, but death was just _one_ tragedy that could befall a person and affect them forever. The Princeling listened to their stories, and helped as they were able. But while compassion, direct action, and money could all heal the kingdom, they could not turn back time. 

The King was told that Hollow would return to the palace after days at work, trickling soul from pulled tendons and little cracks in the chitin of their hands that they likely were too numb to notice, and simply collapse into bed. 

Normally, their family checking in with them was enough to keep them from over-exerting themself, and would ensure they were doing things in moderation. But their mother was all but incapacitated, and their father buried beneath miles of paperwork, meetings with local officials squabbling over resources, paperwork, an incoming mountain of requests for loans or royal investment and the dizzying damage control reports from his accountants, more paperwork, Lurien's Watcher reports on the progress of mending infrastructure in the City, keeping up with Monomon's extensive surveys for later seismological studies among her scientists, his retainers fretfully shoving plates of food at him and saying things like "Sire, it's been days, _please_ ," and yet more paperwork.

Herrah was also kept busy in Deepnest with her own affairs, and the ongoing dispatch of relief supplies, but there was a bit of trouble there too. The quake had only been a vague tremble as far as the spider realm was concerned, but it had disquieted the mantises. They too had been set on edge by the lean year, and their Lords responded quickly with organized hunting efforts to stock up on food, water, and lumber for their tribe in case catastrophe hit _them_. Many of these teams had individually taken it upon themselves to make trouble for the travelling spiders; hunting the caravans and stealing whatever provisions weren't too closely watched. Skirmishes broke out, and the Beast had to prioritize the safety of her own citizens and prevent those from continuing, lest the Mantis leaders get involved and turn the issue into something politically dangerous. She made the choice to slow down the frequency of the caravans, and then have them take the longer route around through the Fog Canyon. Aid from Deepenest had been appreciated, but it had been slow.

As for Hornet, her time had been effectively split in half. Deepnest always had plenty of duties for her, but she'd also taken it upon herself to help Hollow with their work in the City. She was back and forth between realms more often than usual, to the point where the King had once rounded the corner and nearly jumped out of his shell when she'd almost walked into him, on a day where he _thought_ she was supposed to be with her mother. She had yelped, both had frozen for a moment, and then they greeted each other properly as if nothing had happened before continuing about their day.

But time went on, and the worst eventually passed, as it always does. As the months crept by, reconstruction was completed. The remaining flukes were again sealed away or hunted down, and bugs who did not survive were given their rites and properly buried. There was cautious relief as families slowly started filing out of shelters, and life returned to normal at large, save for a general sense of fatigue that hung in the air, heavy and dismal as the city downpour. 

The royal family was also experiencing this fatigue. Hollow had obviously been the first to burn out, and was just as worried over by the retainers as the King. The Queen returned to court again, though was perhaps a bit jumpy for some time after finally resettling her roots. The King was arranging for a gift to be sent to Herrah for Deepenest's contributions in their time of need, though he was admittedly having some trouble deciding what she might appreciate, and kept putting it off. Vespa had refused any gratuity, instead just demanding Hallownest promise aid in return should the Hive ever need it, which would probably be fine. 

And as for Hornet, well. 

If she seemed to so easily be put in poor spirits even before the year began, there was a more _frigid_ quality to her these days, if the King had to describe it. Herrah was apparently unworried. She'd explained that it was perfectly normal for a young spider to grow protective of her privacy, and that either side of her lineage easily lent to territorial behavior, either way. (She'd also remarked that many teenagers were plenty cutthroat even without any extra genetic predisposition to be so.) And all that aside, Herrah would often simply _ask_ her daughter about her welfare, and Hornet would always assure her mother nothing was amiss. If Herrah had any doubts, she did not voice them, and instead chose to trust the princess' word.

The King worried, though, that there might be more to it. On bad days, he considered that it might be the godsblood running cold through her mortal shell that lent to some discomfort-- or maybe even _distress_ , especially after such a prolonged period of stress and uncertainty. A wyrm was not a peaceful thing to be, and he knew how it must be less so when one contained its power in such a small carapace without first becoming familiar with it.

He taught her a bit of her heritage on his side when she'd been younger, but as she grew, she'd wanted little to do with it. She was a host unto herself; brood of Beast and Wyrm who loudly owned the half that came from the land that would be her's, and mostly just brought up the other half when it suited her. She was a sum greater than her parts, unique to the world, and she knew that better than anyone. It used to be a source of pride for her. 

His Lady called his daughter troubled, but never to her face. Herrah had once called her a little terror, and now dropped the adjective, though kept the fondness. Vespa praised her prowess with her weapon, and her tutors reported proudly on her observant nature, and her talent for tackling any problem put before her with long term strategy in mind. Hollow described their sister as "Perhaps not very nice. But she is _kind._ " They had insisted upon how that distinction was important.

The King held onto the thought that she was somewhat cold. This was not an attack on her character, as he understood that would be hypocritical of him. Distance and practicality could serve a future ruler quite well, if they could reasonably self moderate with their people in mind.

But her _anger_ was troubling. Anger for a wyrm often spelled devastation for everything around it. She was no wyrm, not fully, but what had she retained of his kind? The same territorial inclination he had, that once put everything he loved at risk? That instinct to throw oneself headlong into whatever problem was unfortunate enough to be in the way, and _strangle_ it? That soul-deep compulsion to be _seen_ , as urgent and definitive to the Pale King's life as a mortal's compulsion to _breathe?_ Any one of those could be the ignition key for the wrath of a god. Or demigod, as it were.

The thought of having passed any of that along to his daughter was only another regret for the collection. Rage was a terrifying feeling, when one could not ascertain its source within themself with certainty. To dismiss it as a simple teenage rite of passage ran the risk of ignoring real distress, and letting it all fester into something truly harmful. 

But this was at least one transgression he could still try to mitigate, and so he kept an eye on her. He noted that she had little patience for social calls as of late, and kept a single-minded focus on any training or study she personally found important. The past few months had made it difficult for him to schedule many lessons on spellwork, and he caught her one day practicing on her own in the courtyard. She focused on combative magic today, and stood back obliterating wooden training dummies as the wingsmoulds quickly dropped in more to replace them. He saw as she opened fire just a bit too early, and reduced one of the wingsmoulds to smouldering scrap in her flurry. The King could not tell if it had been an accident, from the way she silently watched the void of it burble in its attempt to reform without a shell.

She spotted him then, and looked at him as if daring him to say something. He met her gaze with only the mild appraisal of someone who was trying to categorize what he saw. That seemed to irritate her.

"Can I _help_ you?" She prompted.

"...You cannot."

"Then?"

Quick, keen, decisive. Dangerous if she grew lax in her self control, and not just to her surroundings. And he was not talking about her spellwork.

"You will overexert yourself casting for area of effect that way," he spoke instead of her spellwork only.

"I know my own limits."

"So you say."

"Is that a challenge?"

The King balked, just a little. 

"... You've nothing to prove to me."

"So you say," she repeated tonelessly, and then effectively dismissed him by returning to her training. Sensing that he'd somehow misstepped, and that no good would come from staying, the King continued on his way.

But the exchange did leave him with a new idea.

Was it a _challenge_ she wanted? To test her skill, or out of some latent, draconic desire to _prove_ that skill to the world? He thought perhaps if it was simply an _outlet_ that she needed, then maybe, the entire kingdom might also benefit from one. It'd really been such a dreary year.

-

The first warm and full night together after their brief separation was spent shielded from the world in the comfort of a nest, entangled in rumpled sheets and one another. Drawn canopies dampened sound and rendered the space secure for husband and wife alone, where they could speak privately and intimately about things that did not necessarily require such protection. Even so, their tones were hushed, for relish of the moment.

"Things have been tense. It seems as though the kingdom has not seen levity in ages."

"Recovery has been as quick as we could make it, my Wyrm. But yes, I do feel as though a cloud still hangs over us, though it is not so heavy as the one diseased that once did."

"... This is true. But still."

"What is on your mind?"

"Do you remember how we once hosted tournaments? Those tests of skill that earned us some of our Five?"

"...But of course. They seem as if so long ago."

"I believe we are due for another. A free spectacle for some, and for others a chance at glory and fame. It may even serve as a recruitment drive for those with skill, who might not else have gotten the chance to showcase it in front of those who'd pay for their services."

"Oh? It feels as though it has been an age since I last heard you speak of any _light-hearted_ plans for our realm."

"Am I really so dour, my Root?"

"It is not polite to put a lady in an awkward position with her response, my Wyrm."

"Forgive the transgression, then. But what do you think, truthfully?" 

"I _adore_ the idea. We could host competitions in turns. Bardic contests, archery, perhaps even _jousting_ , if any weevils still observe the practice. And of course, the melee. The people would delight in that."

"I could draft the plans tomorrow morning."

"You should. Ah, and we will need to think of prizes for the winners."

"There is no need for that, my lady. A purse of geo will already be expected for the champions as soon as we call it a tourney."

"Indeed, but can we not be just a bit more imaginative than that? Have the ruling gods truly nothing more fantastic to offer to the most extraordinary among their people?"

"Have you any ideas, then?"

"... Given some time, I shall."

"Of course."

"The Five will be pleased. A friendly competition in times of peace is a fine break from the monotony of drills and duty."

"I would not expect them to be so very bored. Even Ogrim, in all his zeal for combat, still has his crafts."

"And Ze'mer and her wife have their little ones."

"...You mean their _aviary_?"

"Yes. The maskflies count. You should see how the two dote on them."

"I am sure. ...All that aside, do you believe _our_ children might participate?"

"I would assume our eldest will not. As well as they took to their music lessons, they are not one to enjoy being the center of attention. As for the princess, I cannot say. It may simply depend on her whims."

"I suppose that sounds right."

"Ah. Which one do you fret over, this time?"

"...Hornet. Though I might not call it fretting."

"And I might. Has something happened?"

"... Not specifically, no. She is growing, and she is sharp. We've much to be proud of."

"Indeed we do. Though I wonder at your need to reiterate the obvious."

"Both sides of her lineage have lent her unrelenting strength of will, and she's long since used it to forge herself into as keen a thing as her needle. If it would... provide her an outlet to be able to show off to the world what we already know, I would want for her to have the opportunity."

"... Is that the real reason you seek to host a kingdom-wide competition?"

"No. ...Is something funny, my Lady?"

"Not at all. It is perfectly natural for a parent to want to boast about his children's skills. Few can provide the opportunity to do so on such a large scale, of course. It is a sweet gesture."

"That is _not_ the full reason. I mean what I say, the kingdom could use the distraction. A celebration of its strengths and passions seems sensible for morale."

"And I agree. There is no need to explain yourself to me, my love. ... Nonetheless, I _am_ sure she will have fun, should she decide to compete. For both sides of her lineage have _also_ lent her a familiar and enduring affection for _showing off_."

"It is not polite to leave a gentleman in an awkward position with his response, my Root."

-

The news spread quickly after the King's decree, and with the Lady's help. Word seemed to travel from every circle to every tower and every little hamlet, as was the intention. 

There was a reclusive old lord living up by kingdom's edge who'd long ago commissioned for himself a vast colosseum, finished just before the first documented cases of the Old Light's plague. The King had gone to personally requisition the old master to rent it out to him, but had found him already long dead of that same plague, and simply left to rot right there on his molding throne for all this time. It appeared no one had particularly bothered to check on him, even as the years went on. The Lady supposed that made sense; he'd always been rather unsavory, and would happily attract other unsavory sorts. Her Wyrm reported evidence that the ghastly old lord had been pitting the infected against each other in fatal combat as a spectator sport, for some time before his death. And after the Old Light's demise, his colosseum had been abandoned entirely. The people who lived near enough all corroborated these stories, citing memories of the exact sound warriors discarded over the edge made when they hit the ground and splintered.

Some long overdue cleanup was deemed necessary for the entire colosseum. The King had the body disposed of, and the Lady quickly set about spreading her own influence to the place, wreathing it in roots and budding vines until the atmosphere felt, to her, a bit more celebratory. 

(And together, hand in hand, they blew the old lord's throne to smithereens. The act of destructive usurpation was quite honestly rather nostalgic, and brought back some fond memories of the bygone days of their courtship. She made a mental note to talk to her husband about finding the time to arrange a date night sometime soon.)

The King then left the specifics of tourney planning to a committee of appointed officials, who would periodically report back to him on their progress.

The Lady's next move had been to call upon her good friend and co-parent. Herrah and her people were invited to spectate, or even participate if they so chose, though very few spiders seemed even remotely interested in the offer. Herrah had actually appeared surprised at the invitation. She wasn't shocked to have _been_ invited, per say, but she hadn't expected to learn Hallownest was "hosting anything so… _merry_." 

It seemed the kingdom upheld a decidedly stern reputation, even among the denizens of the dark. Either way, Herrah had accepted the invitation to watch and take part in the games as an honored judge, agreeing that her presence might encourage foreign participation, and seeing the affair as an opportunity for a mini vacation. And with her acceptance, the Lady found it extremely easy to choose the other two judges to sit alongside Deepnest's Queen.

The palace as a whole was abuzz in the days leading up to the event. It was refreshing. The tourney itself had even proven easy to finance; there was a prevailing idea among the nobility that donating to Hallownest's first tournament in at least a decade was a _fantastic_ way to show off their patriotism. (The White Lady _might_ have encouraged this somewhat. It seemed prudent to allow the royal treasury a break once given the opportunity.)

Though her Wyrm had sent out the official announcement, the Lady still took it upon herself to explain what would be going on in a bit more detail to her child and stepdaughter, as reported to her by the committee.

It would take place over the course of four mornings, with four components: the joust, the bardic competition, archery, and the melee. The competitive nailfighting would break for the third day, and the fourth would be devoted entirely to it for the finalist bouts. Hollow had seemed a bit bemused about the whole idea, and Hornet had been quiet. 

And now the tourney was only a couple of days away, and so the Lady was working with Hollow and a retainer to coordinate for her child an outfit suitable for the occasion. Comfort was ideal, but she was of the opinion that the kingdom's elegant, dignified Princeling ought to be shown off in the very best light when they chose to appear for the public. 

(Her Wyrm was certainly not the _only_ parent among them who enjoyed boasting about his children in his own way. The Princeling's appearance tended to inspire either awe or fear in their subjects, and with the right dress, whatever features they wished to highlight would shine. It was not difficult to make them look strong and imposing, or graceful and aetherial, as an event may call for.

Even so, Hollow was, confoundingly, still rather shy. And so the Lady would take pride in their stead.)

"Your father plans to appear in ceremonial armor. Perhaps you might like something similar?" She suggested. For it, she only got a contemplative tilt of the head. Not enthusiastic, but not opposed. Perhaps they could do a chestplate. 

"Between _him_ and all the polished knights, will there not already be enough reflective surfaces around to turn the whole arena into a light show?"

The princess was at the doorway, paused from wherever she was going. Always time to stop and poke fun, the Lady supposed. Hollow gave their sister a little wave, otherwise dutifully still while the retainer stood up on a stepladder and fastened a cuirass around them.

"Dear thing, the entire point of the day is spectacle. I daresay what you describe is already expected," the Lady quipped by way of greeting. She looked between the two, and gestured the girl to come in.

"Since you are here, perhaps you might humor me so kindly as your sibling does? Let me find you something nice for the occasion. Unless you already plan on attending in Deepenest attire. I am less familiar with their fashions."

Hollow did not move while the retainer tried a downy capelet over their shoulders. Hornet looked less than agreeable to the idea of being in their place, and stayed where she was.

"...It won't matter what I wear, if I compete." 

"Oh?" She tried to show a little more surprise than there was. Hollow's was more genuine. 

"In what event are you thinking?"

(The question was more of a formality. Of course they could all guess, but the Lady was of the opinion that the girl would have had a good shot at the bardic competition. Herrah did so love to gush about her daughter's ability with her strings and voice.)

"The melee," Hornet confirmed. 

"How fun. I might be concerned about favoritism from the judges' stand, but I suppose there would be little opportunity. Knowing the winner of a contest cannot get any clearer than seeing which of the combatants has been knocked to the ground."

Hollow signed a single word to their sister: _"Careful."_

"There will be no need for any extra caution," the Lady eased. "All combatants shall be armored, and the game will be little more than highly active fencing. I'd wager the polearm sparring you two sometimes get up to might actually be more dangerous." 

She was (mostly) teasing. Their "sparring" was play more than anything, and neither of them had ever taken a real weapon up against the other. The fencing pins to be used in the competition were neither sharp nor sturdy, and were only closer to blades in _shape_ when compared to wooden poles, or empty parcel tubes, or branches. (And once, a pair of garpede teeth, trophies brought to the palace by Hornet when she was small. The King had swiftly ordered them both to wash their hands after catching wind of it.)

Hornet nodded. "You should compete. You've skill enough to have a shot at winning," she suggested to her sibling. The Lady expected them to reject outright, but their response was more lukewarm curiosity.

"Oh? The people would be delighted to see the royal children both participate in the games. It is a nice idea," she encouraged.

Hollow seemed to consider. The Lady kept in mind to not bother with commissioning ceremonial armor. And on that train of thought, dismissed the retainer from the room. They folded up the stepladder under their arm and took their leave.

"You two would certainly be a force against one another. I pray you both keep good sportsmanship in mind," she half warned.

"We'll see," Hornet replied mildly. Hollow gave her a look. Their sister returned it.

"If _you_ fight fairly, then so will I."

The Princeling took some affront to that, and turned up their chin at her. Hornet returned her attention to her stepmother. 

"Have you decided what the prize would be for the winners?" 

The Lady brightened. "My Wyrm and I have compromised. A purse of geo for the champions and runners-up is customary, but that will be the alternate prize. I felt that for our divine status, we ought to be able to offer something more grandiose. And perhaps a bit fanciful."

"What, then?"

"One wish granted to whomsoever comes in first in each category."

Hollow looked at their mother, and she could glean little from their countenance. But Hornet's was openly stunned. 

"It is still a secret until we announce it at the start of the games. We would like to avoid any massive influx of participants who'd join for that alone, so please do not let this knowledge leave the room," the Lady went on.

"It _already_ sounds dangerous, even without giving more potential cheaters time to prepare," Hornet observed.

"Perhaps. But your father and I shall practice good faith, and grant what is asked of us at our discretion."

Hornet squinted, contemplating something.

"... It would be troublesome to have to deny a champion their prize in front of everyone, wouldn't it?" 

The Lady hummed. "Well, yes. It would certainly dampen the spirit of the thing, at the very least. But as I have said, we will simply have faith that we will not receive any overtly immoral or impossible requests."

The Lady was more or less going off the lofty hope that the champions were going to be the sorts of passionate people that worked very hard to hone their skills, and thus simply wouldn't have had the _time_ to also be _nasty_ . Or if they were, that they would at the very least hesitate to make reprobates of themselves in front of a crowd. But higher beings could really be so complicated, and so their reigning gods could only _hope_ things wouldn't turn out awkward. 

As for being asked impossible things, the King and Queen have already agreed to allow for some creative freedom if necessary. In the aftermath of the quake, the Lady might have worried that someone would ask for the return of a lost loved one. Except, everyone old enough to compete was also old enough to have lived through the plague of the Old Light. And so the public opinion on _necromancy_ would likely remain a sour one for quite some time yet, and the King and Queen probably didn't have to worry about _that_ specifically. Hopefully. 

(Well, if pressed, she could easily imbue a corpse or two with just a bit of the life-light over which she ruled. But she could not promise what arose would be the same creature that had once fallen.)

"Now then, dear thing, if you are still uncertain whether or not you might participate, I think we ought to coordinate something festive for you to wear in the stands. It does not _have_ to be white, but I have a few pieces of ornamentation I believe would look--"

"No need. I will compete," Hornet interjected. The Lady only smiled, knowing. Hollow watched her, and then signed a mutual sentiment.

"Truly? How wonderful. I trust you two shall represent your lands with all the grace expected."

Both nodded at once, regardless of their agendas. With all the little dangling jewelry, Hollow's movement made a noise akin to windchimes. 

"Ah. It seems we've gone and gotten you dressed up for no reason, then. Perhaps we might take advantage of this with an outing downtown, if you'd like?" 

Hollow agreed easily enough. Hornet voiced a quick "I'm actually busy," before sparing a polite half bow and strolling off. The Lady returned her attention to her eldest, letting out a small sigh.

"That is a shame. For how our princess seems always in motion, one would think she plays sentinel to all of Hallownest."

Hollow looked on at the doorway, but only shrugged, jingling faintly.

-

And so the first day of the tourney finally came, and the King and Queen presided high above the action, in a newly constructed skybox wing over where there had once been a massive, decaying throne. The King's light shone bright upon the arena, and all could see the fantastic audience turnout, as had been anticipated. Bugs of all walks of life were clamoring along the stands in an excited uproar, and plenty of winged folk took to sitting upon the high rims of walls and thick branches overhead to see the action. 

It was not only Hallownest bugs in attendance, either. Many spiders did actually take up the offer to come and watch or join, as did a few of the mantises who'd long since broken off from the village after its civil war. Even one of _Vespa's_ lot had deigned to leave the Hive and come and compete in the melee, lending further significance to the event. 

The Queen of Deepnest was also in attendance, and as Hollow had heard, she served on the panel of judges along with Monomon and Lurien in the front row.

There were plenty of participants in the way of local celebrities. Instrumentalists and bands of varying renown entered the bardic competition, mercenaries and hunters of minor fame entered in jousting, archery, and of course the melee. 

For many, the most notable entrants (and likely the focal points of the kingdom's gambling) were the Five Great Knights themselves. Their reputations necessitated pushing them forward a bit in the ranking in the spirit of fairness, so they would not actually fight until the melee was a little over half done. The idea was that anyone who got to that point would then be more likely to stand a chance against at least one of them. 

Hollow could hear the Queen give the opening speech above, from where they were in the resting area below the arena with many other combatants, including the Five in question, and their little sister. Cladding armor had been a requirement to join the competition, and Hornet had gone with something simple, bearing no markings or crests. She'd had to trade her needle for a thin, flexible pin sabre no more dangerous than hard plastic. (Suffice it to say: it would _definitely_ still hurt in the right hands. Pretty much everyone here possessed some degree of The Right Hands.) Hollow's own armor was perhaps a bit fancier, and proudly bore the crest of Hallownest on the chestplate. They considered touting pride for the kingdom one of their responsibilities, and in all honesty, being more of a symbol than a bug here made them feel just a little better about the idea of being watched by an audience. 

Hegemol made a token effort to catch some of the Queen's speech through the speaker in the corner, while Ogrim and Dryya listened more closely. Ze'mer conversed cheerfully with her wife (who Hollow heard promising to meet her in the ring, with all the predictable romance of marital nailfighting), while Isma polished her armor, seeming giddy despite how she and her cohorts were relegated to the audience for today.

"I can't _wait._ It's like a fairy tale, isn't it? Laurels and banners, the whole kingdom cheering on its heroes, and all of it presided over by the King and Queen themselves," she mused, nudging Hegemol. "We even have the royal children competing. Imagine the applause once our gallant _princess_ takes to the arena."

Hornet spared the bare minimum of a polite nod from where she was spooling a supply of silk. Isma quickly shifted the subject to Hollow.

"And your highness, I know we're all pleasantly surprised _you've_ joined as well. I'd nearly forgotten how well you can handle yourself in battle." 

Hollow, taking that as a compliment, signed their thanks. Hegemol laughed, armor clanking.

"At any rate, it'll be great fun to meet you all in the ring. It has been so long since we've had an honest to Wyrm _competition_ between us like this."

"Agreed. I am going to absolutely obliterate all of you," Dryya replied.

"Over my decomposing husk," Isma said sweetly.

There was a sudden uproar that rippled through the room, and Hollow could hear even more commotion above. It could only mean the grand prize had finally been revealed. They forgot to pretend to look surprised, and Hornet simply did not bother. The Five didn't seem to notice, at once all clamoring together.

"Oh-ho! Do you hear _that_ , friends? What a remarkable way to ensure our competition will be _zealous!"_ Ogrim proclaimed.

"A _wish_?" Isma balked.

"Ahhh. His majesty certainly leans into the aesthetic of the whole event." Ze’mer shuffled, peering over at the rest of the room.

"No, that was _definitely_ the Queen's doing. She's more for poetry." Dryya nodded.

"Oy, Isma, I'll give you three guesses as to what _Dryya_ would wish for, in the event of her victory. You know. Speaking of the _Queen_." Hegemol elbowed Isma, who snickered into her vambrace.

"How about I wish my _foot_ through your _skull,_ you _overblown crossing-guard?"_

Ogrim got between them, far more cheerful than mediation would call for. "Comrades! We should save our squabbling for the ring, where we can settle our scores for all of Hallownest to witness."

"...All of Hallownest… Nemenoooo…"

Hollow watched them riff with mild amusement. Nearby movement shifted their attention to their sister, who'd spooled up a good amount of silk and clipped it to the fauld of her armor. Her standardized weapon lacked the eye of her needle, so she'd set about looping thread in knots around its handle, interlocked in a spider's web pattern. Standardized or no, of course she would find a way to set herself apart. They'd come to expect nothing less, but were proud anyway. 

Hollow had a few guesses as to what she may want out of this. Some were more worrisome than others, but there was also a non-zero possibility that she was simply here to show off. She glanced back up at them, ever quick to notice eyes on her. 

"... What?"

They clapped a hand on her shoulder in response, reassuring. She examined them with a tilt of the head.

"Hm. _You_ seem in good spirits, considering the crowds. You've never been the type to enjoy such…" She glanced back at the Five for a second, still engaged in all their hullabaloo. "...Commotion. ...But if you're faking it, it still isn't too late to back down."

They shook their head once, confident, and then fondly clacked their mask against her's. She shoved them back with frightening reflexes, unamused by the voiceless snickering that got in return. Above, the first round of the games was announced, and everyone who still wanted seats after getting their armor on started shoving for the door.

"I will see you in the ring," Hornet said as she stood. It was a threat, but no more of a threat than what they'd normally get for annoying her. They nodded back, signing an excessively formal goodbye. She couldn't help a grin at that on her way out.

For all their jesting, Hollow did recognize the concern she held, and appreciated it. And perhaps it was a _little_ warranted, but they were undaunted. If they won, after all, they weren't going to bother with any wish. They would take the prize money instead, and make sure it got to those who they knew still needed it. The city may have recovered from the quake as a whole, but there were still those who had slipped through the cracks and fallen on harder times. For them, geo could at least provide a cushion. 

Of course, this was all hypothetical. With so much competition, they figured they probably wouldn't win the whole melee, and that too would be fine. They honestly felt just a little bit bad about the idea of wasting such a… _fanciful_ grand prize if they did. But there was little Hollow wanted for, if one were to ask them. Especially from their parents. Their mother and father were already so quick to acquiesce for anything material, or any desire they made known. 

Perhaps that was not _entirely_ out of guilt. But enough of it _was_ guilt that they preferred _not_ to ask for things, if it was not necessary.

It felt much better to earn things, or find them, or make them, anyway, now that they had the freedom to try.

-

The first day was about as chaotic as one would expect. Every event had dozens of participants, but the first round of eliminations went by quickly, as those who with notable skill would effectively decimate their more amateurish competition. The bardic contest was spaced as sort of intermission periods between the more action-oriented competitions, but the people were no less enthusiastic. Passion and creativity were frequently more than enough to make up for some lack in technical skill, and the crowd went wild more often than not. 

The judges, however, were less united.

"The Weaver quartet was phenomenal," the Teacher asserted.

"The crowds certainly adored them," the Beast observed.

"Because they are a _novelty_ here, even for their apparent renown in the Deepnest," the Watcher argued.

"Don't be that way, Lurien. Skill deserves credit."

Lurien sat straight in his chair, giving off an air akin to a school principal trying to assert his authority. 

"I am not challenging that. I am simply asserting that crowd enthusiasm is a flawed measurement of merit. There was also ample applause for the young bug who'd walked into the arena and started _beatboxing_."

"I thought she was impressive," Monomon mused.

"Both of you have a point. But if I catch you being flagrant about your biases towards your city dwellers, Watcher, you'll have the swift honor of learning what a spider might do when one feels cheated _,_ " Herrah threatened easily. Lurien just glared, now very much used to that. 

"Beast, are you _really_ going to accuse me of harboring prejudice, while you preside over a game in which your _daughter_ is competing?"

"I am a _queen,_ it is my _job_ to be fair. And I'll certainly not insult her skill by way of gifting her any unearned points."

"And I shall not insult the integrity of the games by doing the same with my 'city-dwellers'." He physically mimed the quotation.

"Ahem," Monomon enunciated the word. "Judges. The Weaver quartet?"

The other two were unabashed, but ceased the squabbling.

"... Seven," the Beast offered.

"...Also seven," the Watcher added, ignoring the bewildered gesture Herrah made at him with four hands.

"And with my six, that's more than enough as an average. The Quartet moves on," the Teacher proclaimed. Herrah snorted.

"Nice. Very official. Someone ought to fetch you a gavel."

"Ooh!"

_"No."_

_-_

The first rounds of fencing brought on the loudest cheering, and saw most of the betting. Local heroes and ambitious squires pitted faux blades against newcomers of every caste and phylum. Farmers, foreigners, and fancy sorts. Bugs who signed on out of pure zeal for combat, or with dreams of glory, or for something to prove. All would meet each other as equals in the ring.

But not all were greeted as equals by their audience, especially not in the beginning. When first the Princess stepped out into the ring, matched against a local mercenary of some fame, the stadium _erupted_ in their enthusiasm.

 _(_ Meanwhile, in the judges' stands:

_"Hi, honey!"_

"Beast, I am _quite_ sure she cannot hear you."

"Ohh, yes she did. Look at her _face_. Poor child.")

Hornet greeted her opponent with a bow. He returned the gesture, and both raised their blades. 

Three points for a win. They would be earned with sabre contact to the body, or by a knockdown. Armor was provided for those who didn't have their own, so between that and the flimsy weapons, injury was unlikely. Unless of course, the melee ended up more of a brawl. The rules still stood if it did, but drawing blood was an immediate disqualification. (After a few stories and rumors from those who had once known this place as the "Colosseum of Fools", the King and Queen made it _very_ clear that there would be as much distance between it and the tournament as possible.)

For her speed, the first round was brief. He was direct in his assault, and she needed only get behind him to knock him down with a bash of her weapon's hilt guard, securing her first point, pin tip pointed to him in warning.

The second point she won when he lunged forward from the ground, and an evasive hop backwards made him lose his balance for his inertia. Her blade found his neck while he stumbled.

The third point, she won after a bit of actual swordplay between the two. Block, parry, swipe, block, and the crowd ate it up. With a cry, he went for a forward thrust. 

And with a _giggle,_ she sidestepped. He fumbled, and when he turned back again, the tip of her saber clinked against his helmet, dead center of the forehead.

Her victory was announced, and the crowd went wild. The bewildered mercenary sheathed his saber, and both bowed as customary.

"Congratulations, your highness. You are… almost as terrifying as they say."

"Go and give them more to say, then." 

_-_

The day went on, and above shone the skybox where the royals presided over it all. Fully in public view, but with the privacy of the crowd's rapt attention set below.

"The exuberance of our people is just as I remembered. How wonderful that recent misfortunes have not quelled it."

"I agree, my Root. It is almost nostalgic."

"That is not the only nostalgia to be found here, am I correct?" 

"... You are."

"Indeed, it feels as though an eternity since the Princess has shown such energy. Look at the way she toys with her prey, like she had as a spiderling."

"...Do you remember the mosscreeps? How they all began to recognize the color of her cloak, and flee at the sight of it?"

"They still keep a wide berth from my garden's entrance. And I do not think it is only for Unn's wariness of me."

"..."

"I am sure she's having a wonderful time, my Wyrm."

-

For all the excitement over Hornet's debut, Hollow's was absolutely raucous. Their participation had been all but mythologized, with the rumors of how the Princeling possessed strength and skill that none had ever seen them use. 

Their very first opponent nearly fainted at the sight of them, gleaming in their armor, looming so tall. So _much_ taller. And an aura seemed to permeate the air around them that felt a lot like pure _cold,_ and they walked with a purpose that was almost mechanical. All behind eyes like an open grave. 

Hollow's opponent sheathed her sabre, and forfeited at once. 

She was a _bartender_ , for Wyrm's sake. No amount of prize money would be enough for her to want to deal with _this_.

They sort of stared after her on her way out, utterly confused. A bit of distance away, the judges exchanged glances.

Herrah shrugged. "You know what? That's fair."

-

"... I had not truly expected them to participate."

"They are generally amenable to new experiences."

"... My Root. Did you _tell_ them, before we officially announced first prize?"

"..."

"... Right. So that is why."

"It is not. Surely by now they are aware that they need only _ask_ , should they want for anything from us."

"Then _why?_ They have never taken well to being observed, in this way. What would be worth it?"

"They know the games are for public morale, and they know that their presence might be a boon to that. I believe they participate partly out of a sense of duty."

"But that is not your only theory."

"Just before they signed on, they had asked me about the geo prize for the champion. They wanted to know the amount."

"... A boon they themself have little use for. So, they may compete on behalf of another."

"That is my guess, as well."

"But that still makes no sense. The Princeling has as much access to our treasury as you or I. If it is an urgent matter, they needn't even put in a requisition."

"I believe therein lies the reason. _Our_ treasury. Yours and mine. Perhaps their thought is that if they _earn_ the prize money, it will be theirs alone to give away as they like."

"... As always, trying to earn what they have. Unnecessary as it is."

"I suppose so. Be it money, or reputation, or praise."

"Or love."

"... My Wyrm, they _must_ know by now that we love them without condition."

"They do. But that has yet to ever stop them from trying to prove worthy from it. Be it from us, or from our people. We need only watch now, as they try and earn it from the crowd."

"..."

-

The end of the first day brought with it the first champion: that of the archers. A young beetle of peculiar familiarity emerged as their best. She bore a family crest of some minor nobility, to whom she had been adopted in her early adolescence. The girl knelt before the otherworldly glow of her sovereigns, and made her dream known.

"My wish is for permission and protection to leave our kingdom. I desire to venture out into the rest of the world and hone my skills, and I intend to return having made my fame and identity known the world over."

And so the King and Queen granted what was asked. They bade the archer to proffer them the brooch bearing her crest, and with their shared magic, infused into it a wish of their own for the protection of her mind and freedom of her actions. 

The archer rose and held her new charm aloft, to a resounding ovation from the stands. 

Later, Lieke of Hallownest would brave another crowd of well-wishers and new fans on her way to the kingdom's gates, but none would delay her from her dreams. All knew that her arrow would strike true on those out there who might dare.

-

And so the games were ended for the day. Already there were emergent favorites among the competitors, and chatter about all the thrilling stunts and rising stars eclipsed all other news in the kingdom. Even some of the contestants that'd been eliminated earliest enjoyed some publicity, and earned some new connections. The tourney appeared to be doing its job as far as the people were concerned, but there were already other benefits to it.

Hollow was rather used to being held at arm's length, usually either out of deference or apprehension. But after a few rounds where they actually _did_ get to fight, many of their fellow competitors gained enough courage to approach them. A small band of hobbyist fencers held them back to trade pointers, and they seemed surprised to report that it was actually a rather fun conversation. It was good that they could again socialize outside of emergency or duty, even if they admitted to feeling unversed in doing so.

They couldn't tell their father with certainty how their sister fared, however. If she'd even bothered to stay and watch after the melee portion was done for the day, she'd been impossible to find.

 _"At least_ one _of us is making friends,"_ Hollow had joked, earning some half hearted admonishment about being nice to their younger sibling.

-

Day two officially brought the Five into play. People were in an uproar arguing statistics and bringing in banners and signs cheering on their favorite Great Knights, as is generally done about celebrity athletes. The Five in question were absolutely living for the attention, though carefully kept about airs of regality and dignity while in the public eye. 

Mostly. If Hegemol liked to start out his rounds with a roaring whoop to set off the crowd, or if Isma tended to all but dance around her opponents in what was _maybe_ a bit of showboating, or if Ze'mer's first match was preceded by her loudly declaring she would be winning the competition in the name of her true love, well. No one would begrudge His Majesty's Finest a little bit of fun. Even Dryya won her fair share of new fans that day, when the Queen beckoned her forth to bestow a token of her favor onto her truest knight. An artfully knotted vine, speckled with tiny, hardy white flowers, which Dryya would wear laced around a pauldron until the end of the tournament.

The first match between two Great Knights ended up a bout between Dryya and Hegemol. The cheers were deafening, and that energy never abated. Good friends, of course, do not pull their punches in the ring. Either out of a desire to end it quickly and not put each other in any danger, or out of the understanding of exactly how _poor_ of an idea it'd be to underestimate someone who knows them so well. And so the battle was fierce, and for it, a bit lengthy. Both got two points on each other, and the tide could have shifted either way at any point for the length of the third. 

In the end, the match favored Dryya, and both celebrated at her victory. They returned to the break room to yet more exuberance and shouting, and to find the rest of the Five engaged in the unabashed practice of discussing _their own_ betting pools against each other.

And it was in this way that the fighting continued, with warriors from all walks of life showing their mettle in a neutral zone. Lives were changed, though the extent would vary. A baker's son beat out a relatively well known nail for hire, and his family would finally agree that he should hang up the apron and pursue knighthood. Two best friends, both grown up together causing havoc in the fungal wilds, would be pitted against each other in a match that went by far too quickly, and its winner would begin to harbor a grudge for the embarrassing nature of their defeat. A ladybug from a distant arboreal land would be matched against a curious spider worker of Deepnest, and she would be smitten with the fearsome and beautiful creature in an instant. Enemies were made here, for some competed with only victory and the prize it entailed in mind, and so were less discerning about fighting with honor. 

But the judges were quick to catch any funny business, between Lurien's pedantic eye and Herrah's strict adherence to fairness. It nearly made up for the hostility that arose between the three whenever they needed to agree on a score for the _musicians_. Monomon consistently referenced the chart of criteria she'd drawn up, right up until she got heated and joined the arguing herself.

No one particularly seemed to mind the lack of professionalism. The tourney was a high energy event, after all, and far be it from the average member of the crowd to question the minds of three known geniuses.

-

"Oh, Princeling Hollow and mysterious Ze'mer. This will be a fun one," the Teacher observed. 

"My geo's on Hollow. For all you call the knight 'mysterious', she's easier to track in the ring," the Beast quipped.

"Need I remind you that you are a judge, and are definitively _not_ allowed to put geo on any combatant?" The Watched snapped back. And then paused.

"...Besides, the better odds are on sir Ze'mer. Look at the way the two hold their weapons. She shall break their defense without issue."

"Sure, if she can outpace them. Which she won't. They'll rack up the points before she gets the chance," Herrah argued.

"She will _expect_ their speed. I predict a knockdown."

"Lurien," Monomon interrupted.

"Yes?"

 _"You_ are also a judge."

"...Yes--"

" _Neither_ of you should be betting."

"Ah. ...Right." He cleared his throat. Herrah projected an aura of self satisfaction even from behind her mask.

 _"Ha._ Peacher-man got busted for gambling."

"Herrah, you just missed Ze'mer knocking the Princeling down." Monomon didn't even bother looking at her as she spoke.

"... No need to be smug, archivist. And I am _still_ certain they'll turn the match around."

"We shall see," Lurien hummed.

Hollow did, in fact, turn the match around, and end up winning. The result was an unrestrained hoot from the Beast, a quiet curse from the Watcher, and an empty threat from the Teacher that she was going to tattle on her cohorts' behaviors to the King.

-

Back at the palace that afternoon, the King went searching. When he did not find his daughter in her room, he asked his eldest for her whereabouts. They simply made the sign for Deepnest, and that had given him pause.

"... With her continued participation, it would be more convenient for her to stay at the palace. Why leave today?"

 _"Yesterday, too,"_ They signed.

"..."

He had more questions, but most were too vague to be verbalized. Worry always _was_ inconvenient like that. "Is she okay," was close, but it was inane, and not a question he should burden his other child with.

So instead, he asked, "Are you two enjoying the games?"

They signed their affirmation, and a thanks.

" _A bit tired,"_ was tacked on. He nodded.

"Exertion is expected." It might be awkward to bring up the fact that they hadn't raised a nail against another in years, so he didn't.

 _"Her, too,"_ they added unexpectedly. An opening, maybe.

"... I assume you both play to win. What do you want, should that happen?"

As he suspected, Hollow admitted to only being in it for the geo prize. As for Hornet, they did not know. 

_"If it’s me, give her the wish,"_ they told him, resolute.

He nearly smiled, purely on impulse. 

"... Do you truly believe she would accept that, if she only earns it as consolation?" 

Their _"no"_ was instantaneous. The King only huffed, soundless, but not without some amusement.

"She has never been one to settle. Were it not for her station, some might call that stubbornness."

Hollow eyed him. The tilt of their head could have just been impassive. But for all that their neutral countenance was just a fact of what they were, the quiet way they would examine one with the _heavy implication_ of judgment-- with the diplomatic wherewithal not to express exactly what they thought of a person if it wasn't particularly polite-- all reminded him very much of their mother. 

"... If you are thinking that she had to inherit that stubbornness from _somewhere_ , I suppose that is fair."

The slightest upward tilt of the mask that the King had come to associate as a smile, and then a polite little bow goodbye. The King took a moment, then spoke up before they could make it more than a few steps away.

"... You are also not one to speak of stubbornness. The treasury is yours to use as you see fit. Any economics advisor would be perfectly willing to assist you. And yet, you still compete. What is there to be gained from doing so, that you could not already have access to?"

Hollow had stopped on a dime at his voice, millimeter-precise as a figurine on a music box halting with its gears. They turned back to him, considering. And then, two signs.

" _Safety, strength_."

He stood a moment, waiting for further explanation. None came.

"...You know very well how to protect yourself."

" _For kingdom. Safety, strength_."

(The King was once again struck by the unwelcome reminder that his eldest surviving child would have made the finest knight in the kingdom, had fate allowed him to again forsake them.)

"... If that is what you wish to prove yourself capable of, for them, I understand. But you know that there is more to strength than what you exhibit in the arena."

_"Do they?"_

He blinked. Thought for a moment, and then sighed.

"... You have a point. The tourney has certainly not been a _detriment_ to your reputation. Your sister and yourself likely would have come away instant celebrities, if not for your already public images."

There was bit of a slouch to them now, at his words. Shyness displayed outwardly, after years of practice finally somewhat eroded away their default reflex to hide it.

"Such is the burden of a champion. I'd not want it, myself."

Hollow again stared at him, only briefly, before glancing away. The King couldn't fathom what they were thinking about, but got the sense he might have just said something indelicate. Moreso when they again quickly bade him goodnight again, and strode away. He only lingered for a second, slightly bemused, before departing himself.

When it came to his children, he often felt as though he were missing something, or constantly trying to piece together some puzzle that might finally allow him to understand them at their levels. The minds of mortals were starry things, vast and beautiful and rife with endless potential, yet with the comfort of being of him, and far enough away that he could know them on a broad scope.

The problem with his family, then, was their closeness. He'd no idea what would happen if a person ever got too close to a single star, but the results seemed as though they'd be utterly catastrophic to how one went about their life. The scope of things was often so much more palatable at a distance. 

In this sense, he understood his eldest's fascination with the night sky. But unlike the stars, some things were worth the chaos of closeness. He resolved to try and find his daughter before the third day of the games. At the very least, he wanted to congratulate her on how far she'd yet made it. 

He'd not get a chance. It appeared that with the pause in the melee, she hadn't seen any reason to even show up. The King was quickly distracted, though, when early morning brought the crowning of two new champions: those of the joust.

The weevil and their riding partner had differing wishes, both of which were granted with relative ease. For the weevil, they only wanted an ennobling, with an estate that came with it. A simple thing, no magic required, save for that of social perception. The weevil was more than happy with a lordship.

As for their riding partner, she wished for the power of flight. This was a bit trickier, but of little consequence for two beings of creation. They needed only the rider's cloak, and a bushel of leaves grown alongside one of the oldest of the Queen's roots, which were then sewn into the cloak by the King's own hand with a bit of enchanted weaver-spun silk thread. With her new faux wings, the rider would have an easy time visiting her friend high up in their new tower. 

The remainder of the day was for the competition between musicians, judgment of which eventually came down to crowd zeal as much as it did to the judges. Songs from lands beyond the borders of Hallownest played with unknown instruments both invented and imported were debuted, and plenty of new fame was made. Ballads of war, or hope, or piety, and sonnets of new or dead love all caught the imagination of the kingdom, and general conversation on personal music tastes got unexpectedly more _heated_ than those about favored warriors in many circles. The City's most renowned songstress had decided not to compete, and there was some debate on whether that had been a mercy to her competition, or if it was simply a move to guard her reputation against the possibility of getting smudged by defeat.

In the end, though, crowning the winner of the bardic competition turned out to be something of a somber affair. Their champion was an elderly stickbug by the name of Ridley who'd won the day with his lyre, and with a voice that swept reprises of love and loss over the crowd in waves. 

He knelt before the King and Queen upon his victory, and played for them his tale. 

His story was one of survival, and of a family who'd come in from beyond the cliffs in search of a safe new home. Of that family, only he and his hatchling son had survived. All others were taken by a species specific illness that erased much of his kind, and so quickly that none had even the time to name it.

Ridley was spared, but his son had finally taken ill. And so the bard finished his song with a plea,

"I beg you, gods of this land, save my child. Whatever the cost."

A hush had fallen over the colosseum. The King and Queen agreed, swearing to make it so. Unseen between their seats, husband and wife clutched each other's hand tight.

After the games, medics would be sent, and the Teacher herself offered whatever research she had. But no science, nor magic, nor any combination of the two could cure the child's blood. They could not stop his fate, with the means they had currently.

But they could delay it. Technology, understanding of the body and sickness, and spellweaving were all things that would inevitably improve with time, as society evolved. The Pale King drew up a seal, and with the bard's blessing, froze the child in stasis, halting his suffering, and promising him a full life in a future where he could one day receive his treatment.

Ridley did not ask to be sealed with his only remaining family, for he knew that he only got the one wish. But the King, surprising him, offered anyway. 

As the champion cradled his hatchling and took to the plinth, he thanked the King. Mercy to an outsider, he said, was not at all expected from a land reigned over by something so frightful as a wyrm.

The King had agreed with that sentiment, and took no offense. As he watched the bard take to his indefinite slumber, he silently hoped to one day greet the little family again, and that they awoke in a world that would be far kinder to them. A wyrm was a frightful thing, but it was not by any means the most devastating force out there that could befall a family. Unless you count the wyrm's own, of course.

-

And so the third day drew to a close. The fourth and final day brought the crowd in over an hour early, all buzzing with anticipation, often literally. The melee championship was a favored topic of conversation all over, and it seemed everyone had their predictions. All of the combatants had been beaten save for the most skilled, and the list of finalists set to fight for the grand prize was practically star studded.

Three of the Great Knights and the royal children were still in play, alongside a small handful of local heroes, expensive mercenaries, and previously unknown savants. All of whom were preparing for the day beneath the arena. Resting, or donning their armor, or hyping themselves and each other up for what was to come.

But of course, everyone more or less had one question in mind for each other.

"What are you going to wish for, if you win?"

" _When_ I win."

"In your dreams."

Hollow listened to all the hubbub from their place by the entryway, where they sat with their harmless sabre over their lap. Even if two of the Five were eliminated, all were still present in support of their compatriots. And all had certainly been present for the victory dogpile Hollow was subjected to upon their win against Ze'mer. So they were quite content to spend the minutes quietly in wait, while the knights talked. 

"Ah… In truth, I want for nothing. I play for the honor of representing King and country!" Ogrim's predictable platitudes were met with a chorus of groans and eyerolls from the rest of the group.

"Come now, Defender, it could be _anything._ Quit being a paragon for half a second and use your imagination!" Hegemol urged.

"Have you heard the rumors that the Teacher has created a behemoth lifeform with science alone? They say it is animated by acid and electricity, and that it can dream. I think I'll wish to meet it," Isma supplied thoughtfully. Dryya scoffed.

"Surely you do not actually _believe_ that."

"We didn't start seeing ooma and uoma in the fog canyon until she got here! For all we know, she could have built those, too."

Dryya's flat look conveyed her exact thoughts on Isma's conspiracy theories, and she turned her attention to Ze'mer.

"What about you? What would you have asked?"

"Che and mine beloved search for an estate closer to the wilds. We would have wanted for one built upon good land."

"I suppose that is at least practical," Dryya conceded. Ze'mer nudged her.

"And yourself, dear friend?"

"The finest nail that god or bugkind could create," she declared with no hesitation. "A blade is only as good as the claw that wields it, but I see no issue in, say, removing any skill cap that may be associated with a normal one."

"You just want a weapon you don't have to polish and sharpen all the time!" Ogrim accused.

"And?"

"I think I would have liked waterproof armor. Sure mine doesn't rust, but if holy magic is what it takes to keep my cuirass from filling up with rainwater on patrol, so be it." Hegemol mused without prompting, earning a stare from Dryya.

"...An umbrella, Heg. What you need is an umbrella. Thank the _Wyrm_ I already trounced you."

"Alright, well, it would have been an _incredibly_ nice umbrella!"

"Just buy a raincoat. _I_ can buy you a raincoat."

In slightly lower tones than the Five's quibbling, but still not at all hushed, a few of the other contenders chatted in a similar vein nearby.

"So what was it you wanted again?" a termite asked a young mantis exile. 

"Not sure. Would have been content with the money. Now I'm wondering if the King could grant me fire powers."

"Don't be stupid."

A cockroach piped up, "One of the winners asked for flight. And _got it_."

"Right, yeah, that's fair. Y'know, _immortality_ doesn't sound like such a bad deal, now that you mention it."

" _You're_ the stupid one. That sounds awful," the mantis snapped back.

"Prophecy-vision, though. That one sounds useful," the roach tapped at her temple, eyes bright. The termite visibly shuddered.

"Oh, no thanks-- you're not from here, yeah? Legends say the King tried to share that once with a priest. And the poor old bastard, like, _instantly_ went mad. Started up screaming and gibbering, and wouldn't stop until he dropped dead of the terror, a whole _month_ later."

"Stagshit!" The roach accused, while the mantis stared.

( _Not entirely stagshit,_ Hollow thought. Their father had actually told them that story, from his own perspective. The old cleric had been a cricket of some kind, one of the more unfortunately drought resistant species. It had simply taken him about a month to finally die of thirst. Impressive, given the screaming.)

" _Bloody--_ does this place have any _good_ stories attached to it?"

"...Uh... Battle of the Blackwyrm, maybe?"

" _So_ many people died."

"Right, well, that's expected."

Conversations continued in that vein, with hopeful combatants musing on what they might want. Riches, strength, power, health. Vengeance, sometimes, from those who'd been wronged. Love, sometimes, from those who'd been wronged differently. One bug just wanted enchanted armor to give them an edge in future combat. Another wanted their pet crawlid to be grown five times its size so they could ride it in the streets. Someone wanted a family debt cleared. Another wanted an entirely new face and body. So many different lives, all wanting in different ways, finding commonality in competition. The rest kept their desires secret.

"Your highness! And for you? For what will you ask of your father, if you win?"

Hollow froze, pulled abruptly from their thoughts at Ogrim's voice, before they heard a huff at their side. Hornet stood in the doorway, and they gathered that the question had been for her. She considered the room, and how all eyes were now on her, before deciding to answer.

"I am going to ask that he pick up a weapon, and meet me in the arena." She spoke plainly. 

The beat of silence in the room was such that you could hear a pin drop. Which everyone did, as Hollow's sabre slipped from their lap and clattered to the ground. 

Hegemol guffawed, after a second. " _Hoo_ , that was a good one. Had us worried for a moment there, highness! But really-- do you at least have an idea of oh by the Root _she's serious_." Hornet's face had not changed while she stared him down. 

"Yes, I am."

"You want to fight the King," Isma asked without inflection.

"Yes."

"Your father, the King," Ogrim further clarified.

"That's the one, yes."

"God himself," Hegemol pointed to his winged city crest.

Hornet just didn't bother, and waited in silence. It was another second or two before the knights and other peers burst out into overlapping chatter and objections that sent a furrow between her eyes.

"Princess--!"

_"Ohhhhhhh--!"_

"--terrible idea, why--?"

"You can't-- can you _do_ that? _"_

"--if she had a _death wish_ , she could just--"

 _"Enough!"_ Her voice cut clear, "If anyone disagrees with my intentions, I invite them to try and dissuade me in the ring _._ "

Hornet did not invite any further argument as the gate to the arena clicked open above. She turned on heel and marched back out at once, and Hollow immediately gave pursuit. They caught her via void warp, up at the ledge by the ladder. 

"You're not up, yet," was all she said, not even surprised.

Hollow inhaled, summoning patience, but finding little of it. In the end, all they did was make a flat, sweeping gesture with their hands and shoulders. Formal sign was not needed to get across the _"Why,"_ when it was mostly about the emphasis.

"It's not any of your business. Should I win, it will be _my_ decision."

They simply repeated the gesture, but bigger and even more exasperated.

"Why _not?_ It's as your mother said, this is all just sport. There's no harm in it."

Hollow did not move from their spot in front of her, and she maintained curated aloofness while they stared. They answered with three slow, precise motions of the hand. 

_"I'm not stupid."_

"And neither am I. I have my reasons. And I can tell you when I am _not_ being called up to fight. So _may_ I _pass?_ "

Their sigh was a heaving thing that chilled the air in front of them, but they relented. For now. Later, though, there would be _questions,_ regardless of who won.

Hornet brushed past them to head out of the gate for her first match of the day, but Hollow stopped her a moment with a tap on a pauldron. She turned to them, visibly irritated and probably expecting more protest, but they kept it brief.

_"Be careful."_

Her expression thawed a bit, at that. She patted their hand, and then responded with sign in turn.

_"I will. You too."_

_"Promise?"_

She gave them an affirmative, though a distressingly flippant one.

And with that, she headed out the arena. Half a moment later, her opponent, that one rather boisterous termite, sidled past Hollow. He was eyeing their sister with no small amount of apprehension. 

They found some humor in that, which served to somewhat ease their anxiety. If anything, boldly announcing your intent to do battle against the God-King of one's entire realm was one _hell_ of an intimidation tactic. Poor guy.

-

Some time later, Monomon took a tally at the judges' box. 

"We're at the very last bit of it now. As much as I can't condone your _betting_ , you were both more or less right."

"Of course," Lurien nodded.

"We're down to only Sirs Dryya, Ogrim, and Isma, the royal children, and that young warrior of the Hive."

"This is actually sort of exciting. Your showboating royal knights make for a damn good spectator sport," Herrah admitted.

"Hm. Beast, is the Hive creature one of his Queen's personal guard?" The Watcher indicated to the name on the list.

"Not that I recognize. Hornet practically grew up with Vespa's knights. And none of them would ever venture so far away from their Queen and domain. Though, it's odd to see that _any_ denizen of the Hive did," she mulled it over aloud.

"He must be particularly driven," Monomon alleged. "Or perhaps just headstrong."

"At any rate, it is of no surprise the Princeling and Princess made it so far. No one would expect any less of his majesty's own children."

"You'd do well not to ascribe Hornet's prowess to _him,_ Watcher."

Lurien rolled his eyes. "And _your_ daughter, o honored neighbor Queen." 

"Nuh-uh. Not me, either. Her accomplishments are her _own_. As are Hollow's."

"...Yes, of course."

"And what an accomplishment it would be, for one of them to come out in the top ranks of a quasi-international competition," the Teacher hummed, ever the voice of mediation. "Now then, next up on the docket… ah. Sir Ogrim, and their highness. Speak of the Nightmare."

"Ugh, that expression."

"Not a fan of it, Herrah?"

"It just makes him so _smug."_

-

Hollow stepped out to meet their old mentor in the ring. Granted, they hadn't had too much time together in a teaching sort of setting, and they'd already have easily matched him in combat even back then, but still. They had a soft spot for the old beetle, and as such promised themself to give him a good fight. 

That turned out to be an easy task. Ogrim took it upon himself to begin the match by pounding at his thorax and setting the crowd exploding in uproar with an exuberant battle cry. His claws were his weapons, and thus his means of earning points, so Hollow took care not to get too close when they could help it. That also turned out to be very easy. Ogrim was a good deal more… _bouncy_ than most of the other contestants.

Luckily, they'd had their fair share of practice handling aerial assaults. If the years of having a tiny ambush predator for a baby sister-- and one with such a penchant for _leaping_ \-- taught them anything, it was how not to get too disoriented when a creature came at you from above at top speed. 

Blows were traded, and points won and lost. But as both were adept at evasion, the match was beginning to run a bit long. Until Hollow got an idea that finally won them the match, though it was not one they were very proud of.

They waited for Ogrim to tuck himself into his shell and fly at them again. When he did, they reached up a hand, and _caught_ him. And then promptly spiked the middle aged stinkbug straight into the ground. 

The crowd in turns let out sympathetic noises and shocked yelling. The judges deemed that a decisive knockdown, while also themselves either wincing or hooting in delighted astonishment. Herrah was laughing openly.

Ogrim needed a second to recover from the shock, but took Hollow's hand when offered. They helped him back up, and he yanked them into an enthusiastic hug.

"Hah! Very well done, your highness! Such courage and cunning, just as always. I could not be prouder!"

They would have been embarrassed by all the eyes on them, and the praise, but just found themself resigned to more displays of shell-crushing celebration by the Five again later. 

-

Up in the royal skybox, the restless tapping of hard claws against the railing. Functionally inaudible in the commotion of cheers and chatter below, but still very much there.

"Ah, we have arrived to the portion of the melee where I cannot truly wish for the success of one contestant over another."

"Such is expected, my Root, when all who play are our own."

"Dryya still wears my token, and with it the adorably chivalrous promise to win in my name. And now, she shall oppose our beloved Princess. How very _cruel_ fate can be."

"That it can. Though I am certain fierce Dryya's loss shall not reflect upon you nor your favor in any way."

"Are you so certain she will lose?"

"..."

"...Ahh. Come now, you know peeking ahead spoils the fun of these things."

"My apologies."

"And this _is_ supposed to be fun, my love. There is nothing truly at stake."

"So it should seem."

"What worries you?"

"... Nothing set in stone."

"The future never is. That is the trouble with it."

"..."

"...Would you like to call an intermission, my Wyrm?"

"No, no need."

"Talk to me here, then."

"... I worry for our daughter."

"Ah. That is, at least, familiar territory as of late. Do you see her coming to injury?"

"...That depends."

"Naturally."

"But it is not that. ...You know I do not begrudge her, for how she must despise me."

"..."

"But I wonder if I have misjudged the extent of how much she does."

"... What do you see that might come to pass?"

"Nothing that shall make her happy, no matter if she wins and gets what she wants. _That_ is the worrisome part."

"You are picking at your hands, my Wyrm."

"Ah."

-

Dryya strode out into the ring to meet her opponent, sizing up the little princess with what seconds they had before the round. And the instructor in her was pleased to be examined in turn. The unimpressed look on the girl’s face at the vines still looped around Dryya’s pauldron was admittedly kind of funny.

"Even with my service to your family in mind, I'll hold nothing back," the Queen’s knight began. Her opponent was unbothered.

"Doing so would have been an insult, lord knight. And a particularly stupid one."

A smile quirked at the edge of Dryya's mandible. Not so _little,_ anymore. That was a pity, but not too much of one.

"And I expect you'll grant your _favorite_ Great Knight the same dignity."

"Sir Ze'mer was eliminated ages ago," Hornet retorted at once. 

"Oh, now, that's just not funny." 

Both got into stance, and the round was called to begin. The girl was as quick as her mouth, but Dryya had of course seen that coming. Her own speed in the ring was unmatched, except by Isma. But if she had any advantage over Isma, it was her persistence.

Said persistence was utilized in a rather "good offense as the best defense" style of attack. The princess was a flighty thing, careful with herself and annoyingly _flippy,_ but Dryya needed only to catch her off guard and take her down before she could get her bearings. Hound the opponent, give them neither quarter nor room to breathe; the same tactics she once employed to cut down her enemies one after another in stacks until their bodies were chaff at her feet. Except the premise of battle here was a good deal less grim.

The same keen pursuit for blood was revealed in the princess when she scored her first point with her saber bent against Dryya's neck. 

She must have looked so surprised, judging by the positively shit-eating smile present in the girl's eyes.

"By order of the crown, off with your head."

Dryya laughed openly. "You're having the time of your life, aren't you?"

The quip was not at all meant to be discouraging, but Hornet reset her stance with a bit more seriousness. The second round went just as quickly as the first, this one to Dryya, her saber poking into the armor right over the princess' heart. 

"That's one. ...Do you believe regicide here would get me tried for high treason, or would it be more of an international incident?" Dryya contemplated, just a bit goading.

"There wouldn't be much of a trial," Hornet responded, looking at the offending weapon with mild annoyance.

(That was actually kind of a horrifying thought. If the untimely death of this creature did not end with her Beast mother tearing her murderer's shell in half with her bare claws and feasting on the still living tissue inside, whatever her _father_ might do to them would doubtlessly leave them _wishing_ for that fate.)

"...True."

Another round, another win for Dryya when the princess was a second too slow to step back. One more.

The girl upped the ante with her defense, picking up speed and growing fastidious with her strikes. Dryya lunged forward to end it, and was met with a swift kick to the gut, knocking her down. _"Ooh's"_ of sympathy were heard from the crowd, and Hornet's second point was called.

No banter was exchanged as they launched into the third round the very moment it was called. Perhaps Dryya had somewhat underestimated the girl. That was hardly fair, as she remembers well how she herself would take down grown bugs twice her size when she'd been Hornet's age. And Hornet, apparently, meant to challenge _the King._ She wasn't dumb enough to make that decision without some forethought, and the confidence that she could at least hold her own. The kid was part wyrm herself. 

That was the thought Dryya had when the princess disarmed her with a vicious cry, knocking the sabre from her hands with a sharp clack of chitin and slamming her with her weapon's hilt from the side, sending the Queen's Knight sprawling. The crowd roared for Hornet's victory, but the judges seemed as though trying to get a closer look.

The princess stared down at her as if caught, clearly trying to calculate if she'd misstepped. It'd been a hard hit. That was fine, but if she accidentally drew blood, she'd be disqualified.

Dryya pushed herself up and stood, dusting off her armor. She gave the judges a reassuring sign, and that seemed to be enough. 

Victory was officially called for the princess, and again the crowd erupted. Dryya sighed, then offered her a bow.

"You fought well, and with ferocity. I can't be a sore loser about going down like that _,"_ she laughed lightly. It seemed to ease the girl's tension somewhat, and the bow was returned. 

"Thank you. You are more than worthy of your title, sir Dryya."

The knight could not help privately finding that adorable. It felt only a step up from the tiny baby-fanged spiderling announcing that Dryya was "really cool," but she'd keep that to herself.

"Of course. Nothing less from the princess' _favorite knight_. But give Isma a good loss too, now. Can't go and let your sibling take down more members of the royal guard than you."

"We're _not_ keeping score," she said quickly. Dryya scoffed.

"Liar. Best of luck, your highness."

She nearly breezed past Hornet, but stopped a moment at her side, tone lowered to something not for the spectators.

"...I believe your father may already know your intentions. Proceed _wisely_ , and with honor _._ So long as you do, you have the support of the Five. Prove it to be well placed."

Hornet only nodded. With that, Dryya strode out of the arena, back towards the rest area. Her pace was even, and she waved out at her adoring crowd again for good measure.

Can't have anyone realizing she'd gotten her wrist cracked under her vambrace and make a mess of a good win. She picked up the pace before the hemolymph started to seep, and was already preparing herself to have to intimidate the competitors into keeping their mouths shut, if any of them found out before she could replenish enough soul to mend it.

-

Back in the City, those who could not attend the tourney in person were flocking to wherever they could go for updates. Hole in the wall dives and taverns had their rudimentary or homemade radios tuned in to a frequency broadcast by a pair of winged bugs unofficially announcing goings-on from their slapdash setup high up along the walls. 

One such watering hole was being particularly populated by recent losers of that very event, if only for its proximity to the colosseum. One of whom was a certain termite, freshly defeated and regaling a rapt audience with tales of his bout against royalty, and everything of consequence that came before it.

And if he was perhaps embellishing things just a smidge, _and_ if doing so _just_ so happened to catch the eye and pen of the pretty journalist taking notes a few feet away, well, it wasn't like anyone was complaining.

"You should've seen it-- shiny leaves thinner than down, lots of 'em, sewn into her cloak so fast you'd think the thread was alive! I would've never thought the King the crafty type, if I hadn't laid eyes on it myself."

"Of course he is. He's a _maker,"_ a beetle and fellow loser nursing a brew beside him interjected with a sneer. 

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, so two of the Five go up against each other, and big 'ol Hegemol just _throws--_ "

"Oi, pipe _down_ , soldier boy, I'm trying to hear the round," the beetle sniped. The termite had half a mind to pop the sore bastard one between the palps, if not for his own curiosity at the way their eyes suddenly went wide.

"What? What's happened?"

They huffed a sardonic laugh around their drink. "Kindly Isma, went up against that shiny little fucker from the Hive."

"And?"

"She just _lost."_

All nearby patrons hushed each other and as the barkeep turned up the volume, someone's voice bubbling up in frantic excitement through the broadcast's grit.

"--unbelievable! Fight must have gone on longer than any yet-- saints, Ro, did you see them _breathing?_ I thought one of them was just going to keel over."

"This is _stag--"_ the static briefly gets a bit too thick for coherence over the new voice, "--one of _our_ knights? Do you know how much _geo_ I had riding on--"

The broadcast goes fuzzy for a few seconds, prompting the barkeep to knock the radio against the bar a bit. It doesn't actually help, but the audio clears after a few seconds anyway.

"--Yeesh, calm down. He beat her fair and square and it was-- it was _unbelievable!_ Guy's a _warrior_."

"I _guess._ Next up it looks like… ohh, this is going to be good. The _royal children."_

" _Yes!_ I got _my_ bet riding on the Princeling. Shame they won't get to face off against the strongest of the Five, though."

"Seriously? Have you been _watching_ ? The princess is _merciless_. Bet she'll take them down and laugh in their face about it."

"Not _everyone's_ got it out for their siblings, Ro." 

"Yeah? Remember that time your brother convinced you to drink the flood water?"

" _We're on air right now shut--"_ the static cuts them out again. Most except the two ex competitors had already stopped listening, and were now making their own bets and predictions. The beetle huffed at the radio.

"Amateurs."

The journalist, also still listening, snickered and set down his quill. 

"I know, right? I hope we can get a more, uh, _observant_ account of the finals, at least."

The termite turned, sensing an in, and shot the journalist what he was sure was a confident and rakish grin. 

"Oh, you want some real information? Because _I_ know what the princess is gonna wish for. And it's _good."_

"Oh? I'd love to hear it." The bug picked up his quill again and flipped to a fresh note of paper, watching the termite intently. Success.

Behind him, the beetle rolled their eyes.

-

One minute left until the match, and the Princess had only barely finished up applying her compression bandages, and sufficiently hiding them beneath her armor. No matter how she tried to ignore it, the last few bouts had left her body strained. Had she elected to rest below the arena in the soul-infused waters of its hot spring, it would have been quickly taken care of. 

But she had little inclination to take her rest alongside the other warriors, after everything that led her here, and all the _questions_. So in what little resting time she got between rounds when warriors were expected to heal, she categorized her wounds. A pulled muscle in the right shoulder, painfully bruised hip, scraped knees, and a general soreness. Not great, but not awful. Field first-aid would do for now, at least until she won.

She would _need_ to find a quick source of soul, after that. Facing her father would require her to be in top form.

Top form would have also been ideal for facing her _sibling_ , but there was little to be done about that now. But she had at least one advantage here, in that she _knew_ Hollow. She knew how they moved, and what they could do, and she had watched their progress in the games up until this point, learning how they approached facing an enemy with the intention of victory. Powerful as they were, there would be no spells here, and no intent to injure. All that at least somewhat levelled the playing field, enough that Hornet was confident she could win. She only needed to be swift, and precise. 

With thirty seconds left, she strode out into the arena to a background of cheering, weapon sitting uncomfortably light in her hand. Her sibling followed in shortly after, their own arrival punctual to the very second. 

Hornet was nothing if not observant. Even though she kept her distance from the other combatants, she'd learned quickly of Hollow's interesting reputation among them. There was something of a duality to it: those who liked or respected the Princeling spoke of their grace, and seeming effortlessness of power in battle. Those who did not particularly care for them found facing them disconcerting, citing an uncanniness to their movements that no one could quite put their finger on, but the closest descriptors all tending towards the mechanical. And they all spoke of the sensation of something cold, grim, and far older than their own shell appeared, looming just behind that pretty pale mask, watching them.

Hornet found them all to be wildly melodramatic. Looming, unknowable creation of God and Void though they were-- they were also the same giant sap of a bug who was frequently prone to knocking their horns onto low hanging furniture, and then would instantly sign an apology to that furniture as their first reflex. 

But still, standing in front of her sibling with a flimsy pin in her hand was daunting, even if she thought she held little in the way of awe for them. She remembered her favorite shellwood training needle, and how she would "challenge" Hollow with it, screeching out battle cries and tossing silk about as she whapped at whatever stick or stave they'd picked up to humor her until she tired herself out.

Hopefully they didn't get the same feeling from facing her in the ring. She stood proud, as she'd been taught, and tuned out the crowd as best she could. 

Hollow greeted her with a bow, formal as ever when in public. She didn't return it right away, admittedly still steeling herself.

"I'll expect no quarter from you, you know. And I don't have to tell you not to expect any from me."

They peered back up at her, considering. And then made a quick sign, low where their hand was still posed at their chest, its movement small and invisible to the surrounding crowd. 

_"Love you."_

She paused.

"...You too, but the statement still stands," she responded out loud. They shrugged. 

_"Worth a shot."_

She'd call them a big cheeky bastard, but it'd be way too easy for them to call her a hypocrite on everything about that, save for the "big" part. The thought was enough to ease her nerves, some. So with that, she bowed back, officially beginning the match. Nerves or no, she had to beat them. She had to at _least_ beat _them_. It might even be enough, for what she was trying to achieve.

-

"...Hmm."

"What?"

"The princess' style of combat here is… how can I put it...?"

"Well? Out with it, Watcher."

"--Like a particularly irate squit buzzing around a goam's face," Monomon finished.

"Yes, that's it, thank you."

Herrah considered, and found no argument.

"...Okay, you know, that is fair. But to her credit, Hollow's so much bigger than her. Not many other ways to go about it."

"She certainly has the advantage in evasiveness, at least. Both are agile, but they will be far easier to hit at all," Monomon observed, her full attention on the bout. "If anything, just for sheer surface area-- ah! Like that!"

"Right in the shoulder. That was an impressive leap," Lurien observed.

Herrah cheered out openly.

" _Yes!!_ Gett'em, honey!"

"Can you at least _pretend_ you are not playing favorites," the Watcher intoned.

"Oh, like _you_ were any better whenever _Hegemol_ was in the ring," the Beast teased. Monomon's attention split to her cohorts for a moment. 

"That's right, isn't it? You really _must_ let me pick your brain about your taste in men one of these days, Lurien."

"May I _please_ call the next round."

-

The Pale King watched his children flit about the arena. The way Hollow carried themself like a soldier: decisive and disciplined. Hornet's spiderish agility, and her hunter's persistence. 

Both were his deepest pride since the conception of his kingdom, even as this was only meant to be a game.

Even so, he caught the flaws in their activity just as quickly. Hollow's lack of follow-through, in some strikes. Hornet's favoring her left side. Perhaps the princeling wasn't trying as hard as they technically ought to, and perhaps the princess was somehow _injured_.

The King was struck alarmingly hard by the impulse to call this all off at once, though he didn't act on it. It did not abate when Hornet won her second point against her sibling, thwapping her saber against their back with a shout. 

The crowd and judges deemed it a splendid performance. But what truly kept the King silent was the way Hornet eyed _him_ from all the way down there _,_ after alighting on the ground and steadying herself.

Hunter and spider though she may be-- and it was very possible that it was only guilt distorting his vision-- he could swear he caught something distinctly _wyrmlike_ in her eyes. A challenge there, or a threat. As if she had something to prove, and would not care what she had to do to achieve whatever it was. 

Perhaps this tournament had not been such a fun idea after all.

-

Hornet only needed to land one more strike before it was over, and she would move on to the championship. 

But that didn't matter so much, right then, because Hollow was _holding back._ And this bout was _still_ taking everything out of her, her shoulder aching and legs burning.

She noticed, when their movements stiffened at the ends. She noticed when they were just a bit slower than they could have been. She even took a risk and left herself open, once, and what would have been an easy strike forward was instead an evasive hop back.

If they worried about truly hurting her, then it seemed they weren't as confident in her abilities as they liked to act. Which was ridiculous. They had _both_ made it this far on their own merits.

Except _she_ hadn't, had she. She'd tasted the little pop of soul in the air, when she'd struck Dryya. And still, she had advanced, watching silently as the knight sauntered off in forfeit.

Dryya was not a piteous sort, nor did she hold loyalty above fairness. Both understood that she simply considered Hornet to have bested her, and had decided that was more important than her infraction.

Here, though, she suspected that Hollow was simply afraid of their own strength. That was infuriating in its own way, if only because it meant she shouldn't be mad at them. She was not the only one they'd gone easy on, but she was probably the only one who _noticed_.

Hornet was not normally one to look a gift stag in the mouth, but she had a damn good reason to want to win, and that reason would be worth nothing if she was simply carried to victory. 

And beyond that, she couldn't even have _fun_ , between the obvious hesitation from her sibling and the hundreds of eyes on her back, watching, and judging. 

"Fight _back!"_

Her saber's hilt jammed back against her wrist painfully as Hollow instantly followed the command, and cut a swathe through the air that sent her skidding back to the ground. 

The crowd hooted and jeered in a wave of noise just as sudden, and the judges hesitated in brief shock before calling it a point for Hollow. From the ground, she briefly saw her mother, who'd not visibly reacted as far as she could tell. This was Hornet's match, and the Queen would not shame her by displaying any unease while she was still active in the fight. Hollow, though, was more open in their horror, and stood rigid with their pin held loose in their hands. 

She quickly got up again, and got back into stance. If this already hadn't been fun, it was now actively upsetting. But only for the two of them and their parents, who were the only ones in the world who would understand what had just transpired between them. Eyeing the crowd, she held a hand close to her chest and began to sign an assurance that neither of them had meant it. But before she could, the judges called for the next round, and both siblings abruptly straightened. Whether or not they were ready, the spectators were. 

Hornet did not hesitate to charge after them. Hollow kited, and was even more defensive this go around, doing everything they could to keep her back and away. They made it seem effortless. 

"Hollow--" she gave chase, leading with her saber and always hitting air as they strafed. She even deployed her saber on silk for the reach, and still they avoided. Her shoulder was now stinging in protest with every move. She needed to hit them and end this _fast._

She landed wrong, and slipped with painful pressure on very much the _wrong_ part of her leg. She narrowly caught herself, but anyone sitting in the stands close to the action saw her stumble. As did Hollow. And _they_ had been close enough to hear her hiss in pain. 

They froze for a beat, and then seemed to come to a conclusion. Hornet only had a flash of movement in warning to skitter out of the way before Hollow lunged in weapon first. They would have gotten her right in the chestplate.

They were not stalled by her evasion, and struck again. Again, she slipped away, this time right out from under them. They nearly _grabbed_ her before she got far enough.

She stood, blade positioned protectively in front of her, and stared in plain surprise. She supposed she hadn't truly expected them to fight in earnest.

 _"Enough,"_ was all they signed, their hand swift and firm. Hornet nearly faltered. 

"Excuse me?"

They tapped the flimsy point of their sabre against their right shoulder, and jutted their chin forward at her in place of a verbal response. She noticed the bandages on her own shoulder were slightly visible beneath her pauldron.

Her eyes narrowed. 

"...You believe you can just _end it,_ then, now that you want me out of the fight? Just like that?"

They did not respond, but again raised their weapon in the offensive. 

Absolutely _typical_.

Monomon called out from the stands, "Is something wrong? Has someone forfeited?"

There was no way anyone else had heard them speak, and so Hornet just called out, "No. We will continue."

Hollow was definitely _not_ pleased about that. Hornet was finding it difficult to give a damn.

In a near reversal of the first half, Hollow now gave chase and swung in wide arcs, and Hornet was left kiting and weaving and kept in constant defense. The sudden uptick in difficulty was closer to what she'd prepared for, but it was jarring, and she strained with it. Vespa had put her through every test of strength and form there was, and she knew endurance was not her strong suit. That had been why she wanted this over quickly. 

And at this rate, it would be. Hollow finally struck true, their pin poking into her chestplate with incongruous lightness. 

"Point to their highness," she heard Lurien say. "The next will be the match."

She could have screamed. She was a bit too busy trying to fend off her sibling, however. They'd taught her some of what they knew at her behest, but it was becoming exceedingly clear just how much they'd _slowed down_ their movements so she could have a chance at keeping up. They were doing no such thing, now, and it was taking all of her focus to keep zipping about the arena and attacking at whatever miniscule opening she saw.

-

"...I can hardly keep up with them," Monomon admitted. "If there'a a point earned anywhere in there, I am liable to miss it."

"There hasn't been," Herrah said with enough confidence for the three of them. Lurien too was keeping up, but only just. 

"I… did suspect that they may have been holding back, some," he muttered nearly to himself.

None of them particularly knew the full extent of Hollow's previous training, but all three knew just enough to be a tad worried.

The only two in the world who _did_ know the extent of the Pure Vessel's training now watched on from above in silence, neither daring to comment.

-

Hornet was steadily pushed beyond her limits. She'd be lucky to land a hit before her legs gave out, 

and the worst part of it all was how Hollow kept trying to convince her to _forfeit_. It was not much in the way of persuasion, just a commanding sign for it about every minute or so, or at every near slip-up on her part. In her frustration she had the intrusive thought that if she had her needle, she'd go and use it to take that arm off entirely. 

Breathing hard, she lunged for their heart, or where a physical one _would_ be. Her sabre hit theirs in their parry, and in a moment that dropped her own heart into her stomach, they grabbed her by the harness straps of her armor, the way one might pick up some species of grub by the scruff.

What happened next was reflex, only. That's what Hollow would understand it as later, and what Hornet would feel bad for doubting. 

She swung next with a cry, but instead of the pin, she whipped the razor-thin silk attached to its end directly into the point of connection between chitin and shoulder, under the pauldron. It worked, in that they dropped her. They had to move instantaneously to cover up the small spray of void that left the wound, though. What would have been a hiss of pain on a normal creature was an unholy _absence_ of sound, just a beat of time in a small diameter where she was momentarily deafened. 

Hornet landed _badly_ on a foot, collapsing at once, ears ringing. There was a chorus of gasps, both for her, and for Hollow.

And like that, it was over. Even if she hadn't fallen, the judges had seen her draw "blood". Hopefully that was all anyone else could glean, for how quickly they'd been able to heal themself. And they dropped their weapon just as quickly in their rush over to help her, checking her over for the source of injury, and signing questions about soul and pain. 

The clench of her jaw made it just a bit difficult to answer. They nearly picked her up, but at her sign to stop, they froze at once, hands hovering. 

"Don't!" She could tell they wanted to ignore her, and so she swallowed, and spoke low enough through the pain that they'd have to pay close attention. 

"...I have to walk out of here. At least-- _at least_ that," she managed. Their next words were lost as she scanned out into the stands for her mother, but of course they'd be nothing but protest.

"Just to the threshold. That's all. I promise."

She signed the word promise as she spoke it, for emphasis. They looked at her, and finally repeated it, slow and deliberate, before helping her up, offering a large hand for leverage. She took it, and hefted back up on a _probably_ broken leg, next breath harsh and whistled through grit fangs.

She could hear the murmurs around her, could guess at the speculation, and it _burned_. Not as badly as the limb, but a different kind of bad. Up in her cheeks, and pressing behind the eyes. 

In a move that would turn out to be accidental PR genius, Hollow butted their face against the side of her's, proud and affectionate. It elicited an absolutely saccharine response from those close enough to see it clearly, and Hornet silently wondered how much soul it would take to simply vaporize oneself. Sadly she had none to spare, and so gave up entirely, and responded with a brief hug around their neck. 

It was on that note that Monomon loudly declared Hollow the winner. Hornet made sort of a shooing motion so they'd stand straight again, and they met the cheers around them with as much stoic silence as all of those before. 

Though Hornet was positive that if they _had_ been able to emote, they'd probably have no clue how in the world to respond to it all. They were _for sure_ just standing there and all but praying their stillness read as dignified, rather than just awkward. 

And together, they walked out of the arena as if everything was completely fine, Hornet surreptitiously holding onto the side of Hollow's faulds. She did not look at her mother on their way out, but the shine from her father's wing in the stands was as unavoidable as ever. It gave her a headache.

She was certain her mother and sibling would shortly give her even more of one while she healed in the rest area. 

Once past the gate and out of sight of any onlookers, she began swearing freely and creatively on account of her _probably very broken_ leg, and Hollow swooped down to pick her up and take her straight to the spring. 

She supposed she owed them an explanation, at least. That would come once they got her patched up, and once Herrah finally barged in, having not even been slightly fooled by her display.

-

A brief recess was had. Once it was over and Herrah returned to the judges, both noticed an odd solemnity to her that had not been there before. Lurien was the one to speak up, after a bit of uncomfortable shifting.

"...Is everything... alright?" He tried. Herrah nodded, sidling back behind the table. 

"For the moment, I believe. Do you think anyone saw Hollow's…?"

"I don't believe so," Monomon supplied, tendrils folded. "But it's difficult to know for sure, right now. The rumor mill should catch up in the following days, if anyone did."

"Suppose it will," Herrah did nothing to hide her displeasure. 

"...I do hope you weren't too hard on her. She struck out under duress, and that is nothing less than what she knows to do," Monomon was just quiet enough to almost get lost in the ambiance.

"She isn't in trouble for this one. Between the broken leg, Hollow's fantastic impression of a kicked grub, and some previous nonsense, I see no reason to pile on. She's up in the stands somewhere now to watch the championship."

"The broken _what--?!"_

"What other nonsense?" Lurien and Monomon asked at the same time.

"One, she's fine, and two, I'm afraid that falls squarely under 'family matters'. Now, remind me of the other warrior both lucky and unlucky enough to make it up to the final round?"

"...Though he is popularly going by 'the Hive Traveler', he goes by the name of 'Avenant'," the Teacher read out.

"Right, yes, the hiveling."

"Hardly. He bested _Isma_ ," the Watcher reminded her. 

"That doesn't make him _not_ a little scrap of a thing. And I still maintain that she was woefully unprepared for the Hive's style of combat," Herrah supplied.

"She did seem rather caught off guard that match," Monomon remembered. "He was fast. I can see how Vespa's training paid off in your daughter."

"Oh, she was fast even before that. It's amazing I've never lost her in the village."

"... Wait, yes you ha--"

" _Shh_ , here they come. Teacher, if you will."

"Thank you." Monomon did the strange medusae approximation of clearing one's throat, and announced the match between the Princeling of Hallownest, and the traveler of the Hive. 

-

Hollow's mind was elsewhere when their final opponent entered the ring to face them, but their attention was captured at once upon seeing his face. 

They were struck by how _young_ he was _._ The bee was somewhere in his later adolescence-- he could have easily been one of Hornet's little playmates at the Hive when they'd been younger. Vespa's kindred were a hardy sort, they knew, and her knights were famed even by the mantises. A young bee with enough drive would doubtlessly be a formidable warrior, though Hollow had never heard of any who had any goal loftier than the protection and prosperity of the Hive. The hivelings were not a particularly individualistic species, and the bees of higher caste were only _slightly_ moreso, sometimes. 

This one was definitely of a higher caste. Or at least he showed up _dressed_ like it, all shining armor and golden trim. They had the thought that he carried himself like any particularly showy Hallownest noble. Hollow worried for a moment that was somewhat insensitive, but at the same time, he was also wearing a _cape_.

Either way, they greeted him formally. Unexpected or not, he was a visitor, and it was very important to represent one's home well, when hosting.

"Well met, your highness," he said after a moment's hesitation, standing tall as he could. "...I don't know much of the sign language, here."

That he knew any was another oddity, but kind of impressive. He sounded nervous, under the soft lilting buzz of the Hive's accent. Hollow supposed that should be an ideal state for one's opponent. But they still felt bad, and relaxed their stance a bit, holding a hand up peaceably. It worked a little, and he gathered himself to speak again, loud enough to be heard by a good chunk of spectators.

"Fight with honor, and may the best win."

The crowd seemed to like that, even rehearsed as it sounded.

The last round had been fraught, but some small part of them was glad that it wasn't Hornet facing off against this traveler. They got the feeling that she wouldn't like him much. He seemed a brazen sort. 

-

The ensuing battle was, in all honesty, little worth remarking on. It was not the gleeful pummeling of the Great Knights against each other. It wasn't the frenzied lightning-round struggle of the royal children, both razor keen on their goals. And it certainly wasn't the erratic affair of bouncing and confusion between Hollow and the White Defender. The bee was simply a proficient warrior with impressive speed, who had a style of combat unique to the Hive. Hollow had seen his like before, and was more than prepared.

But he fought with resolve, that much was unmistakable. He'd get up more quickly than he'd fallen, and strike again. It was between rounds that Hollow signed a question, one of the simplest they knew.

" _Why?"_

The intent got across well enough. He held his sabre defensively in front of him, and spoke with a minor shake.

"I… came to prove I deserve what I want. I am here to earn it. Of your King, I had only a _question_ , but-- if it can be a _wish_ , then, I cannot miss this opportunity. I have to take my shot."

Vague, but passionate. Grandiosity befitting a hero in a storybook.

Either way, it did not strike Hollow as particularly fair that he had to go up against the child of _gods,_ in whatever quest for self worth he was on. What would become of him, if he came this far only to be struck down and sent home without fanfare? They'd kept up with the way everyone was talking, and knew that Hallownest had something of a "distant and mysterious prince" narrative going on for the bee. Any positive association with their neighbors was a good thing, and if he won, the public might delight in the story of the Hive champion. He'd go down in history. 

The thought of history gave them pause. Hollow had little desire to be recorded as a warrior, but that would probably be how the books described them if they won the melee. Sure they were trained, but they were _not_ a knight. And in all honesty, they felt a little cold at the thought of being remembered as something adjacent to one, after everything.

And really, they were only in this for the geo. That was already a runner up prize as well. If they were going to be a protector of their people, they were _already_ setting out to do that in ways that didn't put a nail in their hand. They were a helper, not a warrior. Not like Hornet, or Avenant.

Hollow knew not of _his_ goals, but it was clear that he deeply wanted the win. Whatever his wish, they trusted it must be profoundly important to him. And certainly it had to be something more _sensible_ than wishing to _fight_ _god_ in front of a captive audience. 

It was settled, then. 

The next time Avenant lunged, Hollow stuttered in their movement to evade. He got a clean strike right to their stomach, and looked just as surprised as the crowd that he'd landed it. 

He peered up at Hollow as the point was announced, and they allowed themself to appear as neutral as was their default. Useful, for how they were absolutely _dreadful_ with lies and trickery around anyone who could read them. 

A bit of sword play proceeded, and Hollow kept their movements just a bit slower and more predictable than they previously had. Avenant landed his next point to their throat with a nimble leap, and the audience rumbled and raved with all the excitement. 

The Hive warrior had a look of dawning realization, and Hollow stilled, waiting for an accusation. But he only glanced off to the judges, then at his weapon, and then back to them, before he resumed fighting.

When Avenant earned his final point, it was with a spectacular battle cry and a blow right to their midsection that actually hurt a little. But it provided the perfect opportunity for them to fall backwards, and give him a believable enough win.

(Believable enough to an audience of strangers, at least. Hornet would _seethe_ about this, and their mother would be curious enough to question them later. But their father would probably understand, even if he would have preferred one of his own subjects to win the games.)

All was silence for just a moment, and the Beast got about halfway through pronouncing Avenant the winner before the colosseum was _deafening._ Every sort of reaction one could expect was aired, but luckily, most of the noise sounded like cheering.

The Hive warrior stared out at everyone in stunned awe, sabre loose in his hand. Hollow stood again, and their bow to him managed to cut through his reverie. He blinked at them, and said something they could not hear, but that looked like it started with a "thank you." The noise calmed just enough after a few moments for them to catch the end of what he was saying. 

"... look forward to getting to know you."

Hollow found that a bit surprising, but nodded politely. He'd certainly be welcome in Hallownest as a champion, if he wanted to hang around. They wondered if he'd wish for something that'd keep him here, and how Vespa might feel about one of her own leaving the Hive to reside elsewhere. They hoped that wouldn't cause any tension. 

Whatever it was the traveler wanted, they trusted that it was something significant.

-

The champion Avenant stepped before the King and Queen, staring up at them where they presided high above. He stood proud, the crowd still going strong in their revelry. The King quieted them all with a single move of his hand.

Just as with all winners before, the royal couple was silent. Only the champion would hear the Pale King's voice, as it came through to him in his own mind as a clear whisper, briefly engulfing all thought.

_"Brood of the honeycomb, you have fought well, and prevailed as against the finest of our land. Though you are not of our great nest, it is by our own words we remain duty bound to grant you a single desire requested of our power. Kneel, childe, and speak it."_

The Hive champion found himself doing so, coming back to himself fully with the sensation of creeping dust slipping from his mind. 

"... Pale King," he began, "This land is not mine, but I have travelled far, and learned its customs. To prove myself unmatched against all who challenged me was my final labor to undertake, so I could finally call myself worthy of what I seek without dissent."

He stood now, on steady legs, and turned to the stands. 

"And what I seek has been the reason for all my toil, and I would undertake it all a thousand times again if it meant I would succeed." He walked a few steps in the direction of his gaze, to the confusion of the crowd in the stands he faced. He did glance back at the King before speaking again, and then at Herrah in the judges' wing.

"Pale King-- and Queen of the Deepnest, my wish is for the hand of your princess most fair, if she will have me." A hand extended out to her in her front row seat.

A brief chorus of gasps preceded utter silence. It was shattered by two voices overlapping in the same instant.

".. _.No_?"

"What the _fuck?"_

The Pale King and Hornet, respectively, gawked at the now openly baffled bee. They were joined in that gawking by pretty much all of Hallownest. Hornet sat frozen in mortified confusion, with Hollow staring back and forth between their sister and the champion, signing questions at her more quickly than anyone had ever seen them speak.

" _No,"_ the King said again.

"Oh my," the Queen muttered next to him, sympathetically abashed.

" _No_ , I'm not gonna-- I don't even _know him!"_ Hornet hissed at her sibling, doing her level best to shrink down into her seat. Avenant heard that one, and gaped.

"You d-- we-- we trained together?" He floundered. "My sibling is a Hive royal knight?"

Hornet just stared, not a goddamn ounce of recognition on her face. 

Off to the side, the judge' section was a flurry of wrapping tendrils and frantic claws scrabbling to hold back an incredibly pissed off Queen of Spiders. It was nigh impossible to make out what they were saying to each other between the overlapping cursing and recriminations, and the surrounding uproar of the crowd. The champion was beginning to deduce that he may have possibly made a mistake. But still, he pressed on in his hopeless endeavor to understand what was happening.

"I used to ask you about your homelands all the time! I learned foreign court manners for you!"

"I-- I never asked you to?" Hornet argued in confounded desperation.

"I used to sneak you honey!" Avenant threw up his hands, at a loss.

"Everyone snuck me honey! _Vespa_ snuck me honey!" 

"Do you _seriously_ not even remember--"

"Oh dear _gods_."

"--not even a little?" He pressed.

"Even if I did! So what! I'm not going to-- How old even _are_ you?!"

"I'm-- I mean not _now,_ it's only a… a betrothal, right?"

"This-- you-- _Gross!"_

_"Excuse me?"_

"Excuse _yourself!_ You do not-- you don't just _do this!_ No one just _does_ this!" She stood, unarmed but not at all peaceable. 

"But you're a _princess!"_ He continued to flounder.

"What in _Void's_ _name_ does _that_ have to do with--?! I should _murder you_ \--"

Above, two winged city sentries, off duty, were giving the wildest radio broadcast of their lives. This was directly correlating with a tabloid journalist in a bar somewhere currently scribbling tomorrow's headline at light speed. 

Slightly below the sentries, the White Lady in the royal skybox haltingly held up a hand as if to do… something, but settled for just folding them in front of her. 

"...I may have miscalculated. Perhaps you were right about geo being reward enough, my Wyrm."

The Pale King was busy counting in factors of four in his head, silently battling back the very real possibility of accidentally blinding the entire colosseum in a fit of unchecked emotion. 

(The Great Knights, still up in their wing just under the royal couple's, had taken one single look at the King and immediately began the process of rounding up the crowd and hurriedly urging them all out of their seats and towards the exits. For their protection. )

The Lady glanced at him, then peered below at the judges' wing, cocking her head a bit. 

"I do believe the Teacher is putting less effort in restraining the Beast than she appears."

A clipboard tipped over the railing and clattered onto the arena floor as Herrah began trying to scale the wall, threatening both her erstwhile companions and the champion in every tongue she knew. Monomon mentally noted the inclusion of what sounded like Hive speak, and her suspicions were confirmed with how Avenant's fuzz now stood on end.

His expression of terror only deepened when he again tried to implore the Princess to hear him out, only to find that she had escaped the second he had his back turned. The kindly Princeling, though, had stood up to full height, and now stared him down with that grim mask, and any protest the champion had died in his throat.

Finally, Avenant's eye flicked back towards the King, face shifting in turns between desperation, humiliation, and plain bewilderment.

The King watched him with the pitiless condemnation of a church statue. Though, the bee thought perhaps "damnation" would be a better word, in that moment. 

"...Begone," the King commanded.

Alas, the champion found himself pinned to the spot, and feeling rather faint. 

There was a crack somewhere behind him in the judges' stand that sounded disconcertingly like a table being snapped in half. The local Queen of this realm winced at whatever she saw there, and then regarded him tiredly. 

" _Run,_ you little fool."

He did.

-

The rest of the day passed, despite all odds. 

Hornet sat back at the courtyard that evening, after a brisk and stealthy expedition through the kingdom, on foot, trekked mostly through side streets and rooftops. She'd detoured through Kingdom's Edge, and perhaps spent a good chunk of time there in the quiet, with only the agreeable company of indifferent booflies. But she'd had to go home, eventually. Her needle was back at the palace, after all. 

She was sat polishing it under the shade when her father approached, still in the ceremonial armor he'd worn over his robes to the tournament, as if he'd only just returned. Hornet supposed she could imagine that he'd been left with quite a bit of work after her departure, but did not care to ask about it. She did not bother with any preamble at all, really. She figured that her actions had spoken quite enough on their own, but something told her that her father would not be of the same opinion. If he somehow didn't understand that it would be a mercy to leave her _alone_ after the day they'd had, she tried to supplement that fact by not greeting him with an altogether _welcoming_ expression.

But still, he stood there, and he said nothing. Just watched her, unnervingly neutral, unnervingly calm. She only waited, until he finally intoned his first question.

"... Do you still wish to challenge me, or had that been conditional on the presence of spectators?"

No inflection, toeing the line between a lack of judgment and simple coldness. He'd been like that more when Hornet was a child, enough that it was almost nostalgic. She nodded after a moment's hesitation, keeping her own countenance just as even.

"...So it was not to be for them, then," he inferred.

"Not entirely. I was _going_ to challenge you that way so you could not refuse." She found no reason not to be blunt, given what he already knew. But the only reaction it got was a nod in understanding. So she was right in assuming he'd have refused otherwise.

"If you are here to inform me of some punishment, I am waiting," she stated, too tired for more than the basest frustration. As if that public and painful defeat, the impact it'd had on Hollow, and that presumptuous _fool's_ stunt at the end hadn't already been torment enough. 

(She wished she could have skewered him, both as personal catharsis, and to make it up to Hollow for their well-meaning blunder.)

The King sighed, only indicated by the slight up and down of his shoulders.

"No. We are to get this over and done with, as requested."

Hornet watched in blank surprise as, from light and soul, he coalesced a long polearm into his hands. A glaive, but more of a scepter, ornate and almost decorative looking where he stood it up beside him, save for the sharp prongs at its end. 

(As a soul construct, it was pure showboating. " _Just look at what I can imagine_ ," the things he made so often seemed to say. But as a _weapon_ , it appeared utterly inefficient, compared to her needle.)

"... I lost the melee. The prize was earned by another," was all she could respond with at the sight of it.

"You did. But there was no wish collected, and the Queen and I gave our word."

"Give it to Hollow, then," she returned to her polishing.

"They have already asked that I pass it onto the next in the rank, in the event of their victory. That would be you." 

She paused in her activity, almost wanting to accuse him of lying. But that sounded _exactly_ like their yielding Princeling, didn't it? She _already_ wanted to have a word with them about throwing the match. 

"Would you waste it, then?" The King went on, waiting. Hornet nearly sneered. If he was only _humoring_ her, part of her just wanted to walk away.

But after all that trouble, it'd be foolish to pass up the opportunity. It was one she knew she may not get again. Holy contract or no, Hornet often thought that the years and experiences had softened the old man in disposition, and perhaps made him a bit of a daydreamer. He was less likely to want to raise a hand against her than even _Hollow_ , hypocritical as that was of him with his past of warmongering and… other such violence. She was _certain_ there was still a monster in there, under all the layers of brooding and fretting and regret and court nonsense. Everyone had one of some kind.

And so she stood, and drew her own weapon. He bowed first, because of course he did. 

With a flash of her needle, she struck, and was quickly parried off with a clang of crystalized soul. She anticipated his defense, but did not anticipate him to strike back straightaway with a heavy sweep of the scepter, and was only saved from being knocked off her feet by her own speed. 

"Stay observant. You were off guard," he admonished. She hurled her needle forward in response, and the tip nearly went straight through a wing in his evasion. 

She yanked it back on her string, and jumped forward to meet it halfway, firing off a small spell flurry. He deflected most, but a few got close enough that he had to dispel them with a shield of his own magic. She used the momentary distraction to blast him back with a whipping burst of razor silk. 

She hadn't actually thought it connected, but both glanced down to find his armor etched with a myriad of new fine scratches. The King's eyes set in a frown at the sight, and stayed that way on her.

"I told you, you will exhaust yourself expending soul that way. Exercise prudence. It may save you, in the event of a long bout of combat."

" _This_ one won't be," she returned before really thinking much of it. Ignoring his advice, she leapt clear over him and flung out a small wave of thorn traps, and set about trying to knock him right into one. His defense was unwavering, between the range of the scepter, and his having four arms to maneuver it. His own speed was nothing to sneeze at, either. 

"Eyes on your opponent, not your weapon."

And still, even between blows, he nitpicked like one of her _tutors_. Her eyes were pointedly on him as she tried to slam the broad of her needle against his side, hitting only the polearm in another block. She hopped back before he could strike, and he followed forward in a quick, strange serpentine motion. She was more than prepared to dodge him, to his approval.

"Excellent. It is always best to avoid unnecessary risks."

She sprung forward abruptly, needle whipping through the air as he defended.

"I just--" _clang,_ "bested--" _clang,_ "your _entire_ tourney--" _clang,_ "I _know_ what I am _doing!"_

Not a clang, but a _snick!_ as metal pierced shell between the plates of his armor, and sunk into flesh. Both looked down in vague surprise to see Hornet's needle plunged a good third of the way into her father's heart.

"... What, no _notes_ for that one?" She deadpanned. He regarded the wound with distaste, probably mourning his stupid robe.

"... If you'd like, you missed both hearts by a matter of inches," he offered, mirroring her tone. 

Hornet yanked the blade out of him, wishing she could enjoy how it pulled a grunt of pain from him. The injury knit shut in a blink of light, and the battle was resumed after a quick affirmation.

There was a ringing scrape as he briefly disarmed her, the needle gone flying. She chased it down with a tug of silk and a practiced leap, ducking and skittering out of range in case he took the opportunity to attack. He did. The whirlwind cacophony of steel rang out all throughout the courtyard, as both fought with acute focus.

The crowd would have loved this. The miracle daughter of Hallownest, proving her boldness against their Pale King, just as much its father as he was her own. An icon pitted against a prophecy, or a shining god against one of his most implausible achievements, to the roaring approval of yet another. Hornet could practically hear the applause. Could practically feel the eyes prickling at her back and throat, vulnerable parts exposed as if a dirtcarver pulled up from the ground and placed underbelly-up under a the pale glare of a flashlight and a hovering scalpel.

Hornet dropped her weapon and dove at the old king like a rabid hopper.

He'd expected another swing, but the shock of either her leap or her angry cry made him stutter in movement, and both crashed to the ground, the King's scepter clutched uselessly beside him in two hands while the others now tried vainly to extract the grappling spider off from him. He floundered.

"Y-- This is not-- _Hornet--"_

"Tap out," she strained without thinking, adjusting her pin against his struggle. 

_"Princess--"_

"Tap out!"

_"No!"_

And so the match was turned into an impromptu bout of courtyard wrestling. He had the advantage of weight-- and would have one in limbs if he remembered to release the scepter-- so she had to rely on technique, and perhaps a less strict adherence to the idea of battlefield honor. And she made that second part clear enough in their scrabbling. He'd nearly roll her off, and she'd adjust. A shove would be returned with a near bite, and then she was not the only one hissing. It was in that way that they struggled for a time, like a kindred of skittering creatures squabbling in the nest. 

The thump of the scepter finally hitting the ground was the only warning she got before the hands that held it pushed up off the ground, and she yelped as they were propelled back up in a burst of wingbeats. No sooner than when they were stood did he use her surprise to get the upper hand, locking her arms from under the shoulders. She started on worming out of it, even trying to headbutt him, but to no avail.

"Stop that! You are not going to exit the hold that way, you've got to--"

With a well-timed grab and shifting of weight, Hornet suplexed her father. He went down with a squawk, horns scraping out grass.

The noble princess stood over him, breathing labored, and the King stared like he was still processing what had happened. His robes were stained, and small clumps of soil clung to the tips of his crown. 

A _snrk!_ escaped her, and he frowned up at her from the ground. 

"...That was a good move," he conceded.

"You look ridiculous." Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but she didn't bite back her grin.

He grunted while hefting himself up, slow and arduous. As if after all that exertion it was the simple act of _standing_ that was the real inconvenience.

"I suppose I should offer congratulations. You have finally succeeded in your foremost goal of _beating up an old man,"_ he said dryly. She didn't roll her eyes at him _,_ but it was a close thing.

"You are a _wyrm_ , not some feeble elder bug."

"That being the case, I sincerely hope your win brings you some satisfaction, or perhaps peace." He dusted himself off, the fourth hand picking blades off grass from his armor. His tone was flat, but he glanced at her, expectant.

And Hornet found herself at a loss for words, though she could not pin why. And visibly so, if the way his gaze on her turned searching was any implication. Her father ceased fussing with his clothes, and lowered his hands. 

"... What is it that you want, really? Without pretense, and without the expectation that you could earn it."

He spoke softly. She was silent another moment, watching him, and calculating. 

If he wanted to act only curious, it would not fool either of him. She could ask for a chunk of his kingdom, and he'd make her a duchess. She could ask for knighthood, and she'd be in training to head the Great Knights tomorrow morning. She could ask to leave Hallownest, as her old classmate had. She did not know what he'd do then, but still, she could ask. 

Her father understood _gifts_. He understood how his higher beings valued being given things, and the ease with which good favor could be won that way. He wanted so badly for his subjects to truly adore him, and so had gifted them the mind to allow that. When Hollow had their fits of emptiness, their father would still sometimes have retainers leave presents by their room door, though Hornet could no longer tell whether that was for their cheer, or his guilt. Her stepmother once brought her close as a child and showed her a cleanly bisected charm, and spoke of how his very soul had once been offered to her as a wedding gift. 

And here, now, he wanted his daughter to respect him. She knew there was little he would deny her for that.

"Tell me. Please."

Though, she could not pretend what he wanted from her was only just _respect_ , when he looked so lost as he implored her. It wasn't even her forgiveness he wanted, and her mother had long since told her that her father accepted the idea that she may not even love him, after they'd borne her for such a bleak purpose. So then, it seemed only her happiness could be the goal.

Hornet picked up her needle from the ground, examining it for any nicks earned from the recent use.

"... The Princeling and I had provided aid in the flooded districts for a time after the earthquake. You remember. They mostly kept with the healers. I ran supplies. We'd swap duties, sometimes, or work together."

The King did not respond, but she knew that he listened. She kept her meticulous attention on her blade, and thumbed at a new chip there, near the base.

"We witnessed much of the quake's aftermath firsthand. Many of those earlier days were spent with the rescue effort, before we could move on to providing shelter and medicine. Hollow was there, more than I. They were frequently lauded as a hero, and a royal, and a burgeoning god in their own right, no matter how they dressed down in the same uniform as the other medical staff."

"... Is that not to be expected?" He asked carefully, clearly unsure where he was allowed to interject. 

"It is. I teased them for it, but they never seemed to mind either way. But about a month ago, I worked with them in one of the medical tents, on delivery. I brought in a shipment of drinking water. That was all." Her eyes flicked up towards her father, now, and she found him watching her intently. For once, his gaze did not seem to weigh so heavily, and she continued undaunted. 

"But a wounded old man, perhaps two-score my senior, stopped me to give thanks along with his family." Her chelicerae clicked while she tried to remember the bug's face with more clarity. No such luck, though.

"...And then, he prostrated himself before me. He _prayed_ . To _me._ To the beast-princess of Hallownest, that she might offer him strength during his time of suffering. Or something."

His eyes widened, just a fraction, before his expression went puzzled. She held her weapon out, pointed towards him, her own face set hard.

"So what I _would_ want _,_ father, is the assurance that this will not ever happen again."

He stood frozen for a second. His hands twitched in their sleeves, and she didn't give him any more time to fumble for a response, lowering her needle.

"...But I know can't give me that. It isn't up to you, or the Lady. It is up to _them_ ," she pointed the needle out at a vague point away from the palace, towards the city. "And if I cannot _stop_ it, nor control how they view me, I seek to earn a _reason_ for whatever awkward veneration I've garnered, beyond my blooded association with _you_."

And with that, she sheathed her needle back in its place behind her. Her father no longer looked her in the eye, and appeared to stare at a point beyond her, somewhere over her shoulder.

"...I see. You sought to defeat one divine as a… trial, of sorts, then. To earn what is already your birthright." He worked it out in front of her. It sounded so irritatingly _trite_ coming from him. 

"It _isn't,_ though," she insisted with a sharp exhale. "We know I must eat and rest to survive, and we know I can die. I am no more divine than the tourney's winner, your contribution to my existence notwithstanding."

The King scrubbed a hand down his face, seeming to think very hard on something. Hornet held stubbornly to her conviction, preemptively annoyed.

"...It is more complicated than that. Divinity is... a difficult thing to categorize, biologically, but not so much _culturally._ Therein lies yours, and your mother's, and even much of _mine_ , in the eyes of the people. That much you already understand."

Well, it was obvious enough. Herrah had devout, and one day, so would Hornet. But that was Deepnest, and it was… it was different. It just _was_ . The worship from a suffering soul was not at all like the Beast's rapport with her Devout, earned for her strength. It was only _uncomfortable_. 

"Worship sustains you. That's biological. Your _Kingslight_ isn't a social construct, I can _see_ it," she pointed out.

"For lack of a better term, I suppose it is," He ceded, a restless hand picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. "But adulation is not the only way for a god to remain strong. Even if one were abhorred, a reign of _terror_ would still be a _reign_." Something in his eyes flickered, scanning some place or time that was not here or now. Hornet raised her voice just slightly in her response, enough to command attention.

"Either way, a lack of _attention_ wouldn't wither me away like the Old Light."

"...It would not. But reverence might still affect you, in some way. And even if it does not, you _could_ ascend in truth, theoretically. As could your sibling. And either of you would likely have an easier time of doing so than any creature of mundane birth," he explained, blinking away some vision. The perfect neutrality in his tone did little to keep Hornet from feeling just a bit on edge.

"...So my options are to either figure out full ascension, or just deal with baseless worship as I currently am," she tried to mirror that neutrality, careful. Her father looked back at her, finally. The fidgeting with his clothing slowed to a stop.

"...It is not for nothing that some might see fit to revere you, as you are." His voice went a bit gentler, here, and that got her attention. "People shall idolize or revile who or whatever they choose, and you are right that much of this is out of our control. They will love who they see fit to. Perhaps it is for my hand in your creation that they would think to love you as one divine at all, but that in itself is not enough to inspire veneration. So many of my formidable kin go unseen, or forgotten, no matter how we might contain the power to mold the world beneath our claws."

"Like the Old Light," she brought up again.

"...Yes."

Hornet did not invoke the slain god's name for her father's discomfort, for once. She was simply on her mind. Hornet knew that the blighter of her home had once truly been called the _Radiance_ . She must have been something tremendous, before she lost it all. The King went on, watching Hornet with a look _close_ to the one he got when he was somewhere very far away. But it was undeniably _her_ he was seeing, this time.

"All have seen your worth time and time again, Hornet. When you first began living half of your life at the palace, there were already whispers about you throughout the kingdom. People spoke with such awe about 'the little princess', and about how she and her sibling must have had some hand in sparking hope anew to our realm by providence. You both arrived right after the blight was ended, as far as the kingdom remembers."

Hornet moved to speak up, but he held up a hand, silently requesting to continue. She stood down, for now.

"But your association with hopeful times is only a small percentage of it. In truth, I have no doubt that some reverence comes to you not because the kingdom does not understand what you _are_ , but because it has for so long _seen_ you in action. Both your realm and mine have had the honor of getting to watch you grow up."

Hornet shifted, now uncomfortable for a different reason.

"...As you say," she tried to move on.

"I mean it. ...When you were new, palace staff was quickly grown accustomed to your antics. But to everyone else, you were a beacon. You know how your sibling would agree, if asked."

"We do _not_ need to ask them, thank you." She bristled just a bit, now. 

"This was also made true by how the Five would spread gossip, adoring as they were. Do you remember how Isma would dote on you? Or how Ogrim cried, right there in the entryway, when you donned your first set of armor gifted by the Hive?" 

"Father, you're rambling."

"And do you remember how he was so distraught, when you elected _Dryya_ as your favorite knight? For months she would brag about being the little Princess's favorite, as if it were an honor above the title and prestige she already held. She still speaks of you as if you're her own niece."

" _Father_."

"And Herrah spoke often of how Deepnest's court also adored you. If she is to be believed, they were more _your_ Devout than _her's_ , for a time. I can imagine the pride they'll greet you with, when you return home a ranked finalist of the arena."

"Alright, I _get it--"_

"My Root laments how you were once so very darling, when you were no bigger than a tiktik. She sometimes asks me what in the world _happened_."

Hornet nearly sputtered.

_"Father!"_

"That shine I spoke of has only grown with you. All in the colosseum saw it in your strength. That destitute old bug in the medical tent saw it in your kindness. Perhaps it may still in fact be something holy, as mine is." His tone, gone wistful, sobered into something more sincere. "...But I wonder if what we see in you and your sibling might be closer to _starlight_. Beautiful but familiar. Something to be followed by those clever enough to see how it orients the heavens, as well as those who simply appreciate how it brightens them."

That gave her pause, even as embarrassment nearly convinced her to either fly away on her needle or flip him again. 

"...You're saying I ought to just live with it, then."

That contemplative look on his face melted into something a bit sadder. The trip down memory lane brought a much different version of her father to mind, one who'd hesitate to wear his heart on his sleeve like this. She, too, found herself wondering what in the world happened.

"...I believe you may have to, if you continue to live as you do. I am sorry. But I speak the truth, when I tell you that this admiration has already been earned. This land knows how you strive to protect it, even as you are its _daughter_ , and so the burden of care was never on you."

(Hornet held her retort. If she was born for anything, it was to bear _burdens_. No one had thought the Beast would live long enough to help her.)

"... What did you do, when that bug began praying?" Her father asked after a second of thought.

"I ran, once those surrounding him started to join. I am told Hollow was quick about getting them to knock it off."

"Ah. That would be effective. But it may have been more so had you decried the behavior yourself."

"How very _helpful_ , father, thank you," she quipped back tonelessly.

The King approached her, perhaps just a bit cautious, and held out two hands.

"...Your needle. May I see it?"

She only hesitated for a second before handing it over. He frowned over the slight warping at some areas on its edge, and at the chip she'd already found.

"... You've been neglecting keeping it sharp," he observed. She nearly flinched at the instant twinge of outrage. 

"I have _not_. It just sees a lot of use."

"Hm." He returned it, and cast his eye on her, that discontent still on his face. She almost snapped her question before he began brushing dirt off her cloak, fussing with some new stains, and muttering.

"Honestly, all this trouble."

"Father--!" 

"If you want to squabble around in the dirt like a hatchling, expect to be worried over as one." He punctuated his point by rubbing away at some spot below her cheek with his thumb, an unamused rumble escaping him at her own irritated hiss.

" _You_ challenged _me_ ," she retorted.

"Not first. And if you had set out to prove to yourself your divine inheritance, then _congratulations_."

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

He gave her a flat look.

"Impromptu bouts of ground wrestling are a common occurrence among _wyrm_ _yearlings_ in the nest. I thank the fates that you haven't any siblings near enough to your size that I would consistently have to keep you from _biting_."

Her glare was not even remotely effective. He leveled out his voice to something more businesslike, even as he continued checking her over for debris or injury.

"No one ever claimed godhood to mean faultlessness. You'd not call Unn infallible, nor the Nightmare King. And you'd especially not think that of _me_."

"I never said it did."

"And yet you strive to be worthy of its association, as if that were a thing worth coming to harm over."

She scoffed. "Wouldn't most say it's worth more? Look what happened to the Soul Sanctum's headmaster. Or to Gorb. Both sought _actual_ ascension." Though, she was pretty sure the Great Mind had just meant _literal_ ascension, unless dying at the top of the howling cliffs was meant to be a trial or metaphor of some kind.

"...Is it the efforts of _those_ sorts of beings with which you wish to ally yourself?" The King paused just long enough to give her a significant look.

"...Point taken."

He hummed, and was again distracted by his fussing. Hornet considered him, and the annoying glow of his carapace. That immodest indicator of power that seemed to cause nothing but trouble.

"Divinity sounds like a headache," she decided, for something to say.

"...Indeed. But it is not one I can apologize for possibly passing onto you. It is for your mother's love for you, and her wish for you to thrive, that you exist as you do."

"...I know that."

"That is good. ...But you are not obligated to be grateful for it."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't give me that."

"It is _true._ Anger, fear, and violence come with all that you are. You were not born to a peaceful land, nor by peaceful progenitors. You are a thing primed to rend kingdoms from the very soil up, and install within the world your own agenda for it, if you were so inclined."

His hands came to rest lightly on her shoulders. They were always cold, and always felt infinitely more fragile than they actually were. Much like with Hollow, her mind supplied her with the touch of an articulated doll. Priceless, antique, and run through with thin rods of wire where everyone else would have hemolymph and joint fluid, if anything ran through his shell at all. 

"But your legacy will ultimately be your _choice_ . You told me of what happened, and what you do _not_ want. But what of what you _do_ want?"

A loaded question. Especially for the chilly courtyard, in the late evening, after days of exertion, covered in dirt and slightly dehydrated as they were. Hornet took a breath.

"...It's late. I want dinner."

The wash of relief on her father's face was striking, in how she hadn't expected it. As was the little chuckle that bubbled up from his chest as he stepped back.

"As you wish."

-

On average, the tourney was a resounding success. Especially in the context of its purpose as a way to take the people's minds off year's earlier dreariness. It definitely seemed as though _everyone_ was talking about the games, and about what had become of the champions and popular finalists. And of course, the fate of _one_ champion in particular had all but become common knowledge, even outside of his own realm. 

Now, the King and Queen of Hallownest _had_ promised the champions would have a geo prize if they forfeited the grand prize. And they did deliver on that for the champion of the melee, albeit via by courier. Attached to his boon was a remarkably impersonal message of congratulations on his skill, signed off with a gentle suggestion that the young bee should consider it only polite that he never return to Hallownest. Happily, Avenant had absolutely no inclination to return.

The problem with that, though, was that geo was very much _Hallownest_ currency. He had tried to approach Queen Vespa and offer his winnings to her as tribute. He was quickly excused, and more or less commanded to take his sack of rocks with him. He'd nearly tossed it over the cliffs of kingdom's edge, but in the end, had it anonymously sent back to the White Palace, whose Princeling made very good use of it out in the lower levels of the city and up in the crossroad towns. 

Of course, Avenant would not be the only name to grace the tabloids for a time after that. He had not been the only object of embarrassment for his public stunt, and the victim of it would decide to spend the following weeks in Deepnest, where she would wait for the media cycle to roll over onto its next sensation. And then she'd wait a little bit longer than that, just to be safe. She knew she needn't have, for the upper crust of Hallownest would always provide scandal and frivolity with unrelenting faithfulness. 

Hornet came to a renewed appreciation for the peaceful dark of Deepnest, and enjoyed some time off back at the den. In her opinion, she'd dealt with _quite_ enough glittering nonsense as of late.

But the world isn't always inclined to agree. Some days later back in Deepnest, Hornet and Herrah each received a package. Both were large, white boxes stamped with the seal of the White Palace, delivered by especially strong looking couriers. The Queen's parcel had been particularly massive, and contained an ornate standing loom. Its beams were gilded with swirls of silver, and its warp strings soul infused with a tensile strength to rival Herrah's own silk, unlikely to wear down for the next dozen generations.

"Pretty. Bit late in the year now for a thank-you gift, but I suppose I should be grateful he at least kept it from _glowing,"_ Herrah mused. Also inside was a gift basket, from the White Lady, as thanks for her time as a tourney judge. The other Dreamers had likely gotten the same, even if the other two had also accepted payment for their time when offered. Herrah seemed a good deal more interested in this present, sniffing at the aromatic candles inside as she watched Hornet unpack her own gift.

For the Princess, there was a new needle, channeled and decorated along the surface of its broad side with an etching of the Deepnest royal family crest. Pale ore ran along the impossibly thin edge of its blade, and the hilt bore silvery runes that coiled down the handle and continued around the eye. The weapon fit in her hand a little lighter than her old one, but was perfectly balanced. 

And that was not all. Inside was also a set of armor. Only the pauldrons and torso plates, as was customary for a ceremonial set, but it was also nowhere near as ornate as a ceremonial set would be for the White Palace. She dismissed it in favor of examining the needle, which had even caught the approval of her discerning mother.

"It's exquisite. Fitting for one of the _finest_ _ranked_ _warriors_ across several realms, hm?" Herrah grinned. Hornet called upon her patience. If she had thought her _father_ was insufferable after the games, her _mother_ was twice as bad in her praise, if only because she'd happily declare it in public.

"Mm," the princess did the bare minimum to acknowledge her mother, still examining the needle. Her last one had been long due for an upgrade, but she'd thought she'd have to wait some years for the one she'd be given upon her coronation. It was a beautiful piece, for the intermediary. Meanwhile, Herrah had picked up the armor, and was looking it over. 

"I'm loathe to ever give the Wyrm any credit when it comes to aesthetics, but this set isn't terrible. It's certainly not as… _much_ as what I'd normally expect him to spring for," she admitted, examining the metal.

"... He can be thoughtful. When he wants to be," Hornet supplied without looking up. She could feel the way her mother eyed her in surprise, even if she diplomatically chose not to respond. And then her attention was apparently caught by something in the armor.

"... Hm. What do you reckon these channels here are for? A cape?"

Hornet looked up, and the Queen showed her the back plate. It had a long, thin set of vertical bevelled openings down it, one on either side. Herrah's fangs worked in contemplation. 

"...No, that doesn't make sense. They almost look like they're made to let _wings_ poke out. Maybe they're meant to attach to a sheath for the needle."

Hornet eyed the armor, and again glanced down to her needle. 

"Maybe." Leave it to her father to needlessly complicate things in his efforts to be useful. Her mother peeked into the box where the armor had been.

"I don't see one in here. …There _is_ a note, though," she handed it over, unopened. Hornet blinked, and took it, popping the seal with a claw.

"Hollow?" Herrah guessed.

"Father," Hornet corrected, reading through it. Herrah hummed, instantly more preoccupied with the gift basket. Hornet read it aloud anyway.

"'Hornet, I foresee your stay away from the palace for some weeks, and can recognize the wisdom in that decision. Expect a letter of apology from your dearest stepmother within the coming days, despite all of our assurances that her charming idea does not bear the blame for the unfortunate short-sightedness displayed by certain parties at the tourney's end.'"

"Hah. I should have known that _wish_ silliness was all the Root. Poor dear," Herrah hummed with poorly concealed amusement. Hornet went on:

"'Rest assured that Hallownest shall wait as long as it needs to, though the ongoing media circus will be short lived. I trust that the attachments I have sent shall see good use.'"

"Mm. Not like him to write without having something that absolutely needs saying," her mother mused. 

"I was just thinking that," Hornet added, still looking at the letter.

"And that's it?"

"That's all."

"Hmm."

Down at the bottom, a bit more just before the signature:

_Your sibling noticed the gouges left in the ground where you threw me. I implied the existence of pests in the courtyard. I do hope you can forgive the word choice, as it was perhaps the closest thing to the truth I could come up with under duress. They seem unconvinced either way, as does your stepmother._

_We will see you soon, starlight. Take care._

"Maybe this is just his pointlessly austere way of telling you he'll miss you back there," Herrah piped up, startling her daughter back to attention.

"...Maybe."

Hornet neatly folded and tucked the letter away, and went to find a place to store the armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so, to everyone else who possibly spent the holidays alone or feeling hopeless, im sorry, and it's bullshit. but it's not gonna be like this forever, whether youre in your situation because the pandemic, or if youre just in an awful spot right now regardless of the world at large.  
> things dont like staying the same, so long as _we _stay. and we can stay out of spite, or out of hope, or out of curiosity, so long as we stay. idk how it'll change for either of us, but it will. promise_  
>  love ya_


	14. Commedia dell Ignominity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cross platform request for more grimm/herrah and more dreamer shenanigans fused into just. just some good fun   
> Warning for a bit of violence and some rather cavalier takes on removing one's skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably the closest thing to a songfic im ever gonna write i think   
> and naturally it's both a _bit_ and a Mechanisms thing

Monomon the Teacher was marched from her lab at the business end of a nail. She was caught alone late one night, still working long after everyone else had gone home or retired to bed.

Lurien the Watcher was bodily dragged away mid-painting, after getting bashed over the skull from behind with one of his own candelabras. Never saw it coming. 

Brumm put up a hell of a fight, but persistent force and sheer strength eventually brought him low. And he too was stolen. 

Troupemaster Grimm was summoned by arcane means, and then succumbed to an impressively intricate trapping circle of soul and rune and blood. He was unharmed, save for some wounded pride at the prospect of being invisibly caged where he stood, like a common _mime_.

And Divine? She simply tagged along out of boredom.

The Troupemaster surveyed the situation they were in, and the laboratory in which he and the others had been… invited. He rested his chin on a hand with a sigh, leaning against the edge of the circle behind him. A solid wall of bright runes made itself visible along the point of contact. 

“Woe betide us and all that, but if I can be honest, this _is_ a refreshing change of pace. Does anyone remember the last time someone managed to lay low the most powerful members of our little Troupe all at once?” He addressed his varyingly incapacitated cohorts.

Divine perked up, adjusting her bindings some for comfort. “I do! It was that chilly old crone, the one with the pretty glass house.”

“It was a castle. Made of ice. Built over a capital city also made of ice.” Brumm croaked out, ever helpful. Grimm thought for a moment.

“A queen?”

“A vicereine.”

“Ah! The Icy Vicereine, yes, of course. Lovely woman, as I recall, very polite. Bastard of a time trying to keep the lanterns lit after all the flooding, though.”

Brumm sniffed, a wet sound implicating some blood probably running up his throat. Grimm softened, wanting to reach out, but settled for his role keeping the mood light. Little else to do, what with the circle.

“Well! She certainly hadn’t kept us waiting so long. Isn’t it considered good manners around here to greet one’s guests?” It was a genuine question.

“I would hesitate to call us guests, Troupemaster. And I am afraid the rules of etiquette do differ a bit when it comes to hostages,” the one still conscious mortal chimed in, apologetically. Grimm rather liked her; she’d been watching the Troupe and observing the lab space around them with open fascination, and had an understated confidence to her words that gave her an air of grounded wisdom. Plus, Grimm had the opportunity loaded and waiting to refer to her situation as “squid-napped”, which he thought was quite frankly hilarious.

“Hostages!” Divine chirped out in delight. “How fun! Do you think they’ll try and torture us?”

There was a pause, and then the troupe all burst into varying laughter.

The sound seemed to stir the bloody fabric heap of a bug currently trussed up on the floor. Whoever brought them all here took extra precaution with him; the poor creature had so much rope around him that he was practically cocooned. As powerful as he must normally be to warrant such measures, it was unlikely that he could currently do much more than wiggle. And so he did precisely that, groaning uncomfortably as he woke.

“What…?”

“Lurien,” the other mortal called.

“…Teacher? Why are…?”

“Do not move too suddenly. I cannot do a very thorough check for a concussion right now, so please just try and stay awake.”

That startled this “Lurien” some, if the new little whiff of fear Grimm tasted in the air was of any indication. He attempted to sit up, and in what little success he found, noticed the Troupe. 

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. Mrmm.”

“Greetings!”

“Good evening,” they welcomed him. The bug responded cordially by nearly passing out a second time.

“Teacher, what– what in Hallownest–?!”

“Peace, Lurien. They are prisoners here as well, and won’t harm you.”

“Prisoners?!” He all but shrieked. 

“Precisely,” Grimm affirmed.

“Penned in,” Brumm supplied.

“Party guests!” Divine cheered.

“I believe we may be somewhere in the Soul Sanctum,” Teacher observed, to Lurien’s immediate panic.

“The…? But it was destroyed!”

“Much of it. But the estate housing it was enormous, and it is very likely that the underground wings still stand.”

Grimm squinted up. “Technically, everything is underground.”

“Kingdom’s underground,” Brumm nodded. 

“Cozy, isn’t it?” Divine purred. 

“But why are we here?” Lurien implored through strain. 

“Why indeed,” a new voice cut through. All turned to the source of it. A large bug in tattered noblemen’s garb under a mediciner’s coat. Grimm was quite sure they were mortal, but there was the odd fact that the heavy iron door behind them was still chained shut, and they’d definitely not already been in the room. Also, they were floating, and trailing an stark electric current of volatile soul behind them, and he did not know of very many mortals who could contain enough of the stuff to do things like this without simply melting. This creature must have found some ghastly way to suck up as much of the little Wyrm’s gifted soul from their fellow bugs as their body could handle. Only a guess, but a good one, Grimm thought, because the nightmares whispering about on their shell were very much not only their own. 

They swept their wild gaze across the room, and smiled broadly.

“Has everyone gotten comfortable?”

“Aaahhh, quite!”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Mrm. No.”

“Who are you?” Lurien punctuated the Troupe’s assent with a tight voice. 

“Oh, no one important. Not yet. But soon, I’ll be among the ranks of the _gods_. At _last_ ,” they whispered out in near reverence.

“What is it that you want from us?” Teacher’s voice betrayed only curiosity. That seemed to please their host very much.

“Knowledge. The most important kind. I’ve brought you all here, for your _secrets_ ,” they floated in closer, and grinned down excitedly at Teacher from above her head.

“Honored Teacher, your knowledge creates life. It created beings that move and think and deal out their wrath, out of science alone. We have much to discuss.”

They flitted over to Grimm, and splayed out their hands to the other two of the Troupe in a wide gesture.

“The circus of nightmares! Avatars of rebirth, whose patron king roars back to life from the ashes of oblivion, and through scarlet eyes sees and knows the ends of billions long dead and those born in their place! You trade in eternity for the paltry price of a name and a face, forever pumping the mad, _desiccated corpseflesh_ of the Nightmare Heart with your own diseased hands!”

“Why, thank you.” Grimm curtseyed.

With a hint of ozone and a flash of soul, the bug disappeared and reappeared directly in front of Lurien, tearing a yelp of fright from him. 

“And you. Watcher of the City, advisor to the King. I have heard the rumors, I know what you hide. I know how the Wyrm decrees the most devoted of his clergy to live forever,” they said lowly. 

“I–What?" 

"That is what I want. All of you contain pieces of the secret to life– the secret to my immortality! What we all came so close, so very long ago under our master’s genius. Before the weak ones fell to dream, or simply _bubbled away_ in their incompetence.”

The soul-corrupt scholar punctuated their point by whipping out a hand, and grasping a gelatinous creature materialized from where it hid in thin air. It squealed as they popped it.

“But I will succeed where the doctor failed, and with your knowledge, I will attain ascension!”

The Watcher spoke up with a faint tremor. “…But– But I am not–”

“Lurien, hush,” Teacher whispered harshly.

“Oh, it should be a simple process, revealing your nature. I can start by merely examining your shell, run some tests– it should be a quick process if I can manage to peel enough of it off in one go,” they grabbed at the edge of Lurien’s mask, pinching and jostling it like an over affectionate grandmother. He spluttered.

“You– you can’t– Someone will notice us missing!”

“Maybe, but not before I’ve gotten what I need. You really ought to have your servants come in much earlier in the day.”

“Unhand me, you foolish–”

The soul twister did quite the opposite of that, dirty claws plunging into an opening in his vestment and closing tight around Lurien’s throat. Teacher sat straight up. 

“Stop! There is no need for this. If you are a person of science, you will know I’d be happy to share my notes on the ooma and uoma. And I would be more inclined to do so now, if you’d release my friend.” Her tone was remarkably professional, given the decadent cocktail of mortal terror currently swirling about inside her.

“Oh no, I need you all,” they gritted out in their struggle.

“Then start with me. You’ll get all you want to know from a simple interview. I swear that to you.”

The scholar’s eyes narrowed, but they did release Lurien. He promptly doubled over hacking and wheezing.

“… Is that so?”

“It is. Go and fetch a pen. Though, I would advise you to opt instead for a screen of acid. It is a lot of information, and those can retain plenty of it, theoretically forever. You will need to ensure your writings will not ever fade, yes? I have plenty of blanks back in my archive where you found me.”

The sickly scholar eyed her, and then the bug gasping on the floor at their feet.

“… Don’t move.”

And with that, they blinked out of the room. 

Teacher visibly deflated a little.

“… I… had not truly expected that to work. But hopefully it bought us some time." 

Lurien was still recovering from his coughing fit, and Divine squinted at him.

”…Hmmm. That one doesn’t look very immortal to me. It smells regular. But a very very nice kind of regular!“ She stretched the word "nice” into a near hiss in her obvious hunger. He tried to steady his breathing, then just gulped it down.

“I… the Watcher title is– is symbolic immortality? The mask I wear is the same one that– So the idea is the role will live eternal, side by side with Hallo–”

“Ahhh, well that’s unfortunate. Getting your scrumptious shell stripped off won’t be a very fun experience for you at all! But at least it will be a short one, lucky bug,” she encouraged, perfectly chipper. The Watcher then began the horribly awkward activity of whispering prayers to himself while in the presence of another god. But far be it from Grimm to begrudge a creature their self-soothing habits, especially while he was a guest in their realm.

Monomon offered her friend some reassurances too low to hear, and then turned her attention on Grimm.

“Now then. What is your plan from here?”

“…What, me?” He grinned, amused, “I’m as much along for the ride here as you and your future-flensed friend there, madame Teacher.”

“…I see. So that is not going to help us at all?” She gestured up with what little of a tendril poked out of her bindings, and the Troupe all looked to the ceiling in unison. A grimmkin novice sat on a pipe high up on some complex machine, and cackled its greeting.

“Oh. Hello there, little kindred. Come for the show, have you?”

 _“Flay his flesh and feast for flame!”_ It sang out merrily. The Watcher seemed just one more stress input away from vomiting.

“…Mrmm. Suppose we could send it out for some help,” Brumm rasped.

“Must we?” Divine huffed.

“The King…! Send it to–!" 

"Mm, no chance,” Grimm waved Lurien off. “Grumpy old serpent would simply blast it out of the air at first glance.” He was also pretty sure that the dear Wyrm would ignore Grimm’s call for aid even if he recognized it, for knowing that doing so would inconvenience the circus. 

“The city guards, then? Sir Hegemol?” Teacher tried.

“Ahh, a knight. Do you suppose one of those would have a reaction any different from his?”

She watched the grimmkin laugh as it set another one of those hidden aberrations alight with its torch.

“… Perhaps not." 

She seemed to get an idea then, a gentle shifting of color coalescing along her bell.

"Herrah. Have it tell her where we are. She will definitely hear it out.”

Grimm stood shocked, and his companions glanced between the two. 

“You are acquainted with her?” Brumm asked. She nodded.

“The three of us are good friends. …She speaks well of you all,” the latter sentence came out slowly, as if she were still trying to understand it herself.

“She does?” Grimm brightened considerably. And then he stilled, and shook his head. 

“No. Not her. Out of the question.”

“…Why… why not?” Lurien asked weakly. Grimm just gawked at him.

“Why not? I cannot let her see me and my Troupe like this,” he gestured down at the circle, and out to his loyal companions. Divine was snickering, and Brumm’s eyeroll was so blatant that it was practically audible.

The mortals just stared. 

“It would be embarrassing,” he clarified. “I may not be entirely of this plane, but you two seem like cultured lifeforms. Surely, you must understand the importance of keeping up good appearances. Especially with a queen. This just wouldn’t do, you see.”

The overt staring just continued. Perhaps Grimm had been wrong in his assessment. Teacher’s form contracted slowly in an approximation of a long breath.

“… We have been captured too, and I know for a fact Herrah wouldn’t hold our current… presentations against us.” She was subtle about glancing at the big bloody spot along the back of her friend’s cloak.

“I can say with confidence that she will not think less of you for your own state.”

“To be sure. But you know, we really have not been seeing each other very long. I’d rather not risk anything potentially awkward.” Grimm was pretty sure that this sort of vulnerability should come just a bit later in a courtship. Brumm just sighed.

“Master, you really are overthinking this.”

“Better over than under,” he shrugged.

“Oooh, but this is your first time meeting her friends! How’s _that_ for awkward?” Divine gasped. Grimm balked at the realization.

“… Ah, you’re right! And we were never even properly introduced– do forgive me for the misstep,” he bowed, though the movement was impeded somewhat as he tried to avoid scraping the edge of the circle.

“I am Grimm, master of the Dread Troupe. The gentleman currently bleeding at you from the floor there is my darling, talented musician Brumm, and behind him is our lovely resident fortune-teller Divine.”

Brumm and Divine offered a nod and a “How do you do,” respectively. Teacher paused. Processing, or perhaps simply calling upon any remaining patience.

“… It is a… pleasure. My name is Monomon. That is Lurien. Please call Herrah.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But we haven’t much time–”

“Are you truly so worried, master? It is obvious that she already thinks well of you.” Brumm cut in, honest concern in his voice. Grimm sighed, long suffering.

“I– no, no. I know that, Brumm. But if I do not compromise on my impressions with you, after we’ve spent the better half of a millennia together, I certainly won’t with her.”

“Mrrm. I have seen you in worse positions. That has never factored into how I love you.”

“And I love you too,” he answered softly. And then swiftly regained his professionalism.

“But the answer is still no.”

“ _Aaaaah!_ Honestly, just call your beast-friend so we can get something entertaining going. I am going to get bored again. …Oh, wait, nevermind. I just remembered we’ll get to watch the short one get peeled! Carry on.” Divine giggled into a free claw, and then promptly slipped it back into the ropes. Grimm chewed on that thought, while The Short One made a choked noise in the back of his throat.

“Ah, I actually doubt it. Once our host catches on to the fact he isn’t immortal, they’ll probably just kill him outright. Or– I suppose he’s still got plenty of soul to suck away, I doubt they’ll want it all to go to waste if they can–”

“Call Herrah! It– It would be romantic!”

All eyes were on the Watcher at his outburst. The Troupemaster’s interest was piqued. 

“How’s that?”

“Er– think of it! The… the bold warrior queen, charging in to slay the villain and rescue her imprisoned paramour. She would relish the chance,” he explained, voice high with just a touch of desperation. All attending hostages now stared at Grimm, waiting.

He smiled wide, his jagged teeth briefly startling his new friends. 

“…Like the tragic princes of ancient poetry! Oh, I rather like that– I do not believe I’ve ever gotten a chance to play that sort of role before, that of the _damsel_. …Or, was it the damselfly?” He steepled his hands, already going over the scene in his mind. It was always such fun to try out new acts. He turned back to his troupe.

“What do you two think?" 

Divine tapped at her chin thoughtfully. ”…Mmm, sure, I can see it suiting you, master. Very… histrionic!“

"Hrm. It is a bit cliché,” Brumm pointed out. Lurien was quick to stutter out his dissent.

“Cli– uh– Good sir, does not all fine art fall victim to repetition, when it is well received? Clichés exist for good reason! It can be comforting to an audience to sometimes fall back on a well loved narrative, can it not?”

(Monomon silently noted that there was just a touch of passion in his voice, too much for him to be fully lying. She found this especially funny, considering just last week he’d vented fervently about the triteness of common tropes in art at her for the better part of an hour, after about two glasses of wine. She would not bring this up now, but made a note to remember for later. If they survived tonight, of course.)

“That is a good point. Comedy of the profession is found everywhere– all forms of visual shorthand are. Necessary for a good story, sometimes,” Grimm nodded sagely. Lurien returned the gesture with hasty enthusiasm. 

“It is! And this one is all but written for you. You need only set the stage.”

“Mmm… Let me think on it.”

“Doesn’t that kind of story tend to end with a kiss breaking the curse?” Divine hummed off to the side, addressing Monomon. But it was not Monomon’s attention she instantly had. 

“Ooh! And a nail through someone’s thorax,” She playfully shoved the Teacher with a claw, as if the anxious mortal would agree and titter about the idea with her. She recieved no such enthusiasm.

“… I do not think a kiss would have any bearing on the integrity of the binding circle. In fact, simply rubbing part of it away might be enough to free your master,” she intoned, staring pointedly at Divine’s free limb. Her advice was steadfastly ignored. 

Grimm then caught everyone’s attention with a single clap.

“Alright! Little kindred, go and summon the Queen of Spiders. Tell her of what brought us all here, and do try and make the situation sound dire. Feel free to embellish as you like.”

The grimmkin saluted with a parody of gravitas, cackling as it departed in a flash of essence. Lurien slumped back a bit, and let out a heavy sigh of relief. Brumm side-eyed him.

“… Mrmm. Not bad. You are smarter than you look,” he kept his voice down.

“I beg your pardon?” He hissed back under his breath.

“Go ahead and beg, then. Mrm." 

Lurien sank back into the floor, and again prayed quietly for tranquility.

Unfortunately for that effort, the sanctum scholar reappeared with a harsh sizzle of soul, giving the mortals a good fright. 

"Ahh, our wicked adversary returns! And not a moment too soon,” Grimm welcomed them with unabashed excitement. They dismissed the Troupemaster in favor of addressing Monomon.

“I have found the tubes. First, you will show me how to write in them,” they pointed at the blank container in their hand. 

“Then, the secret to creating life.”

“Simple enough,” the Teacher agreed amicably.

* * *

Monomon stalled their host for an impressively long time, much to Divine’s growing vexation. And it appeared that “Teacher” might be her actual job title, with how patiently and thoroughly she explained the workings of the acid, and then managed to spin their questions about creating life into a lecture on the consequences of defining life through either a purely philosophical lens, or a purely scientific one. 

Grimm idly wondered if she ever worked with children, and then mused on the good fortune Herrah’s young daughter had, to have such a clever role model in her life. He did vaguely recall the little darling telling him some story about jellyfish, once, though he had assumed they’d been imaginary. Well, he supposed Monomon very well still _could_ be imaginary, though that would certainly make her one of the more convoluted nightmares he’d seen in a good while!

He was torn from his reverie by their host letting out a frustrated shriek, after about the fifth or sixth time the Teacher tried to explain the difference between entropy and enthalpy to them. 

“Enough of this! We’ll get back to you, but for now…” they turned their cock-eyed attention onto the Watcher, who was sat up against the wall with his head bowed. He seemed to sense the incoming danger and jolted, while Monomon quickly argued for more time.

“No, wait, I can tell you about the uoma cores– or the lumaflies. I’ve a theory that the currents we use to charge them could reanimate dead limbs, perhaps even ones sewn together from different bodies–”

“Raising the dead is old news, archivist. _I_ will be avoiding death entirely.”

“Stay _back_ –” Lurien snapped. Grimm found that he pitied the doomed bug just a little. Such lonely terror one finds themself in, when their unlucky prayers go unheard beneath the din of everyday life. He made a mental note to ask the Watcher if he’d consider a conversion of faith, if he survived the _shelling_. Monomon’s continued bargains went entirely unheeded.

There was an almighty _crack_ heard from some level above the lab, followed by faint shouting. The voices were indiscernible, but Grimm was more than well enough acquainted with what the commanding of an _invasion_ sounded like. The scholar paused in the middle of their movement to unmask their victim, hands falling.

“What in–? Who is that?! What have you _done?!_ " 

"What the _fuck_ could _I_ have done?!” The Watcher blurted shrilly, earning a swift kick to the abdomen. 

Grimm and company lauded.

“What marvelous timing!”

Their host whipped around.

“You–!”

“Places, now,” the Troupemaster continued. “Is everyone on their mark?”

“As ever!”

“…I do not have my accordion. Mrmm.”

“Not to worry, love. The percussion of soulfire and nailmetal will be ambiance enough.”

“Aaahhh, unfortunate how we couldn’t do wardrobe first.”

“We all look perfect, Divine.”

“I’ve got blood in my eye.”

“Brumm’s got blood in his eye.”

“Ah. Alright, yes, be a dear and help him with tha–”

“Shut up shut up _shut up shut-UP!”_

The fury of the soul twister was realized in a flaring of unchecked power, bursting every lantern in the room to smithereens and sending glass and frantic lumaflies every which way. The lab was now only illuminated by the dim, sickly light of trapped soul in all the strange machines, and by the constant crackle of the bug’s own mad electric discharge.

They warped with a flash to the biggest of those machines, and began fiddling with a console. 

“Not yet, not yet, not yet– I shall have to harvest early– _you’ll_ do. You’ll have enough for now.”

Monomon let out a gasp and drew back suddenly at the sensation of a cold, spongey lifeform bubbling up from the cracks in the tiles inches away. Lurien swore at the small fleet of similar creatures oozing to visibility all around him, but the terrible hoard did not pursue the mortals. Instead, they took to the air and made their ways toward the machine by the scholar. Each took hold of its own thin, hollow cable from a network hooked up to a vat, and every cable ended with a strong looking metal clamp. 

“Go go, hurry, _now_!” They shouted at the accursed things, and at once, the creatures launched themselves exactly where they were pointing. At Grimm. 

Reflex made him try to skitter back, but he was met with immediate resistance from the seal at his back, runes pulsing up the surface of his immaterial cage. So he could only watch, and try and bat the hideous things away as they began attaching the clamps to random areas all over his body and wings. They pinched like all of damnation, and his efforts to pry them off were futile as the hateful creatures just kept adding more. 

“I’ll only take enough to kill the intruders– just that. I don’t need more. Not yet. Not yet.”

The scholar flipped a lever, and with a thundering clang of old machinery, all of Grimm’s world was _agony_.

He heard Brumm shout something, though he could not process what. Soul was distilled in a crude process through searing veins and thousand-degree carapace, and the dry shriek that was ripped from his throat would leave the whole tower and the soil around it cursed for years to come.

It was gruesome, but in a smaller, holier way, it was _exquisite_. The pain and mortal panic from the Troupemaster, and the surrounding horror of his faithful crew as they watched, all fed the Heart like nothing else. He felt as if it were trying to pound its way out of his chest and burst him, in an ecstatic reversal of his own birth.

At the very least, it was a stark reminder to the Nightmare’s vessel to be very, very grateful that what he served loved him so dearly. If it ever instead wanted to see him suffer, there would be nothing he could do to escape it.

His drained soul filled the vat slowly, for all the trouble it was giving Grimm’s body. The extractor was clearly a hack job; it was no wonder so many hundreds lay dead underground. This place must have been terribly inefficient in supplying for what it demanded. The last sanctum scholar rapped it with a fist in their impatience, eyes flicking towards the door.

“Hurry, hurry–”

That same door– at least ten inches of solid iron– split down the middle in an eruption of razor silk magic. Through the fissure, the Queen of Deepnest charged in needle first, flanked by a small company of her stalking Devout. The scene in front of her was thus: 

Monomon and Lurien tied up against the wall, surrounded by a crowd of science’s nastiest blunders that were slowly trying to claw up their cloaks as they struggled.

Brumm, exhausted on the floor from his vain and painful attempts to wriggle out of his ropes. Freshly bleeding from the effort, with Divine now using her free claw to try and saw him out. 

A bloated, screeching old bug hitting switches and throwing down levers, all the while corroding everything around them with their uncontrolled emissions of electric soul.

And Grimm. First, sparking and convulsing in midair inside a summoning circle, and then collapsing to the ground in a wheezing heap as the machine failed, tears sizzling to vapor midway down his face. 

He looked up at her, blearily, and watched as she froze when she saw him in turn.

Grimm would not forgive himself for then losing the chance for a dramatic opening line. All because he had to go and faint just a few seconds too early, like an _amateur_. 

* * *

The Troupemaster was too busy being unconscious to be privy to much of the conflict, but he got the gist of it when he awoke towards its end. The battle was brief, brutal, and finished with a good old-fashioned beheading of their dearest hosting scholar. 

In the end, their demise had been a collaborative effort. Herrah had been the one to swing the needle, but Lurien– apparently freed at the Queen’s first opportunity– had been the one to incapacitate them in a wrathful display of priestly violence, allowing her a clean kill. It wasn’t exactly Grimm’s dashing Beast slaying the evil singlehandedly and then whisking him off as the narrative might have traditionally called for, but it was still a riveting performance by the cast at large. 

And speaking of dashing, Brumm had been the one to wipe away the circle and remove the cables from Grimm as soon as he was unbound. They shared a quick embrace, before both set about having a (slightly dizzy on Grimm’s end) _fantastic_ time cutting down hoards of hostile abominations together. Divine even got to eat one. Said it tasted “just okay”.

And as the Troupe busied themselves depopulating what remained of the laboratory, with some silent backup from Herrah’s soldiers, the Dreamers convened nearby. Monomon worried over Lurien, and gave him a proper checkup of his wounds, eventually declaring him only minorly concussed. No one had any injuries that a bit of rest and careful focus couldn’t set to rights.

“I am hale, Teacher. Worry for yourself, at least for a moment,” Lurien pushed a probing tendril back from his bruised abdomen. Monomon did not scoff, but her displeasure was palpable nonetheless.

“I was unharmed.”

“You were also captured because you were alone in your lab at stupid-o'clock in the morning, hon. Did you even remember to _eat_ today?” Herrah jumped right in.

“…Is that _really_ what you are going to fixate on, after the night we’ve had?”

“I don’t see why not. I _did_ just save you from all the more immediate danger.”

“…The Beast has a point. Perhaps proper sleep should be a higher priority for you than _transcribing field notes_ ,” Lurien agreed, just glad to no longer be the object of scrutiny. 

“And what were _you_ doing again, before you were ambushed around the same time?” That relief proved short lived under Herrah’s probing. He cleared his throat.

“I… had a very important project that needed my immediate attention.”

“He was painting.”

“Definitely painting.”

“I was _not_ p– _anyway_. Allow me to thank you, on that note,” the Watcher all but had to corral his tone back into civility. Herrah relaxed her stance a bit, slinging her great needle over a shoulder. 

“But of course. And thank _you_ for bringing your own light show into the fray, Watcher. I am almost tempted to say that you’d make a fine soldier. If you weren’t so damned fussy, of course.”

“None of that is even tangentially a compliment. And that is also _not_ what I wish to thank you for.”

“…You _don’t_ want to thank me for saving your shell, in apparently more than one sense?”

He did not dignify that with a response. Instead he just stared at her, radiating tiredness, and spoke flatly.

“Thank you, _sincerely_ , for your continued insistence on speaking to us about your _frightening bastard_ of a lover. It was because I knew him for an enamored _thespian_ that we were able to convince him to send for your aid at all.”

The two women gawked at him for a second, and then Herrah turned to Monomon for even a hint of context.

“…It is a long story,” was all the Teacher said.

“…Fair enough. They do tend to be, when it comes to him.”

The three glanced over at the bloody revelry going on in tandem, and Herrah cleared her throat.

“So. What do you think?”

“…Of Grimm?”

“Was _‘frightening bastard’_ not indicative enough of my feelings?" 

Monomon gave a light slap to the Watcher’s shoulder.

” _Luri._ “

"Do excuse me. I have been told I’ve suffered a minor concussion.” His tone remained bone dry.

“Rough night, huh?” Herrah tisked. Lurien just glared.

“…Ahem. I will admit, Herrah, he is… on a different sort of depth than the rest of us,” Monomon explained gently.

“Meaning…?”

“Are you _serious_?” The Watcher cut in. “The bug is a _monster_.”

“Lurien–" 

"He has no regard for _good_ or _right_ , nor does he seem to care for anything but his own crooked whimsy!”

Monomon looked between them, ready to mediate an all out brawl. But to both their surprise, Herrah just shrugged.

“True enough.”

Silence, save for the nearby burning and squishing.

“…You… are just going to accept that?” Lurien finally asked.

“I am.” Herrah sheathed her needle, and took a quick moment to size up her friends. 

“You know, your people were the ones to first call me ‘beast’, out of fear, before I formally adopted the title myself. Is it really so shocking that I am not surprised at your assessment of _him_?” She gestured over, her tone merely conversational.

The two of Hallownest seemed somewhat abashed, at that. Monomon was the one to speak up next, and carefully.

“…It is not the same. I do not believe Lurien calls him a monster out of any of the same ignorance that produced your title. We understand the Nightmare King quite well, Herrah. He isn’t _mortal_. His perception of life and time is skewed in the context of eternity, beyond our understanding. Beings like us are only a flash in the pan, to him.”

“I am aware.”

“Does that not _bother_ you?" 

” _You_ still adore your _King_ , even knowing what he is, and what he has done.“

The Watcher looked as though to respond, but faltered, coming up empty.

”… Do you hold affection for him as a patron, then?“ He asked instead.

"Not at all,” she spoke without hesitation. “Just as a bug.”

There was a quiet seriousness shared in the words between them. The Beast knew he understood. And the Watcher was surprised that he truly did.

And then the Teacher was finally unable to contain her curiosity.

“… Don’t take this the wrong way, Herrah. But. _Why_?”

Herrah laughed, just a bit, out of fondness for her.

“No special reason. He tries very hard. He is loyal. He makes me laugh. Why does anyone pick anyone?”

None could pinpoint when exactly the mood had lightened, but all were silently thankful for it. Lurien idly adjusted his clothing, as if anything could be done to again make his cloak as presentable as it’d been before the stains and tears of battle. Monomon hummed, limbs undulating lazily.

“… I suppose he can be… sort of charming. In his own fashion,” she tried.

Herrah snorted. “Oh, don’t let him hear you say _that_ , even if it’s true. He’ll want _specifics_.”

The Watcher cleared his throat. “… I will admit that it is difficult to see a being as only a senseless demon, after watching how they could suffer. That machine– if I can only name one thing here as _monstrous_ , it’ll be _that_ , or the hideous mind that devised its kind,” he admitted, surveying the wreckage of the extractor. The lab at large was left little more than a wasteland of broken glass and sparking rubble, by the time everyone was through with it.

The Beast went silent, at that.

“… Right. On that note, excuse me for a moment.”

“…Of course, Herrah.”

With that, she left the other Dreamers. Once alone again, the two shared a look.

“…I do not… I do not have to _like_ him, do I?” The Watcher asked, reluctantly. Monomon giggled.

“No, Luri. But we like _her_ , and she adores him. All we have to do is be supportive.”

He picked at a dry spot of blood on his sleeve. Not his own. 

“… You do not like him either, do you." 

” _Wyrm_ , no. He’s a garish prick. But one can’t account for taste, I suppose.“

Lurien guffawed behind a hand. 

* * *

Herrah made her way over to the Troupe, where they stood examining a runestone tablet imbued with the ideas of this place. None seemed particularly impressed by it.

” _'Pure focus’_ , hm? Purity as a concept attainable past the 'constraints’ of the mind,“ Grimm reflected.

"How ambitious,” Brumm attested.

“How dull,” Divine groused.

“How very _unimaginative_. If one believes the mind to be a hindrance, perhaps it is simply because they’ve not been in the habit of using it much.” The Troupemaster’s eye was critical on the stone’s words, though he doubted the stone itself was at all abashed by it.

“Mrmmm. These scholars were intelligent, in their own fields.”

“And a dirtcarver is intelligent in its own. You’ll not find a better digger, but they also make for _dreadful_ conversation. There is far more to life than one’s niche study. No need to obsess so much that you end up getting rude about it.”

Divine snickered behind a claw. 

“Master’s just pissy at them because he got _siphoned_.”

“Sapped.”

“Su–”

“ 'Scuse me,” Herrah made her presence known. The Troupe whirled around to greet her by turns, Grimm’s cloak twirling. 

She looked between the two latter members, and gestured off to the side with a tilt of her head.

“I’d like a moment alone with your boss, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all. Mrrm.”

“So long as you keep him in one piece! Lovely needlework, by the way. Such nice clean cuts, and such _distance_ achieved with our funny host’s flying head!”

“Thank you.” She sounded sincere. With that, Grimm’s dutiful clan slunk and strode off at their leisure, leaving him with his favorite living mortal.

“It really did launch all the way across the room, didn’t it? I wonder if all that soul-hoarding pressurized their body like a sewer pipe,” he mused. He wondered if chopping his own head off would result in physics not unlike a backed-up gas stove finally lighting.

“Maybe. Arms out, hon.”

“Hmm?” He complied at once, curious.

“You had a lot of metal through you where it oughtn’t have gone, doing freaky unethical soul science that it oughtn’t have been doing. I’d like to get a look at the damage.” She took on the tone of a general, leaving little room for argument. Not that he’d been at all inclined.

“Is that right?” Grimm rasped, amused. “How funny, after a battle like _that_. Speaking of– What a _sensational_ performance it was, don’t you think? I am not normally one for improvisation, but one certainly cannot disparage that which yields results.”

“Mhm,” Herrah had a few hands on him, examining the spots where he’d been… _siphoned_ was what he was going to go with. No evidence of his torment remained, save for some sporadic bruising along the soft leather of his wings. The sort of thing barely worth the effort of focusing away, when time would take care of it just as quickly. Still, she looked him over carefully. Wrists, wings, neck. Wherever she might have seen a clamp on him. 

“Any pain, still?”

“Mm?”

“From the extraction. From what I’d been here to witness, it hadn’t looked pleasant.”

“Ah. All is well, I assure you. _Unpleasantness_ is perhaps an understatement for what had been, but I still cannot complain, for how it all turned out.” He watched her passively, keeping obligingly and eerily still as he went on.

“The low point of any good show is instrumental for its success, you see. It is the _suffering_ that invests the audience in how it’ll all turn out for the main players.”

“Mm.” She checked around his face, now. Eyes and horns and markings. Perhaps scanning for any cracks on him that hadn’t already been there. Something about this scrutiny was disquieting, and he found himself wondering what expression laid behind the mask. He continued with careful brightness.

“… And I am sure you had plenty of fun in _your_ role! It was a good one, and played so well. The gallant Beast Queen, leading her soldiers on a daring mission of vengeance and rescue. Really, all that was missing was a serpent to slay.”

This was the part where Herrah made fun of him, or half-jokingly suggested they use the Pale Wyrm as a substitute. She did neither, instead holding his face so he would be looking her in the eye, were her own bare to him. 

Visible or no, the aftertaste of fear simmering deep inside her gave him a bit of context for that expression he wondered about. 

“No, sweetheart. It wasn’t fun. When the novice came, I worried about you, and about all of them. ” The softness of her tone either contradicted or complimented how her garb still sported so much of his kidnapper’s blood. He was not entirely sure, but stood transfixed either way.

“We lost track of the messenger, and it was your _screams_ that led me to find you. And then I saw you trapped, and thought you may be dying. I was _afraid_ , Grimm.”

“…Ah,” was all he could say in return. He really was having such a bad night for improvising lines. She huffed, the ghost of a laugh, and rubbed a thumb along the marking beneath one eye. And just when he thought he was already as still as he could be.

“So I’ll ask again. Any pain, still?”

He mulled that over. It did not take long for him to realize he’d been wrong about there being a fixed correlation between time and vulnerability. And what a _relief_ that was. Mortals so often seemed to be running on a timer, and he sometimes forgot that the things they counted down were often completely arbitrary. It was usually enough to act on a good feeling, if there was good faith.

Emboldened, he laced his fingers with hers where her hand rested on his cheek. He leaned into it, just a little, and let the millennia-shared persona rest for a moment.

“…No. I am… I’m alright. I am certain it looked worse than it was,” he sighed at length.

“It looked like torture.”

“In that case, it was about the same,” he admitted wryly. 

“Well, at least you’re not stagshitting me about it.” Her amusement was a comfort, but he still felt inclined to hang onto the moment.

“…Your friends, though, may suffer some consequence or another from this night. The Teacher seems easily prone to nightmares as it is, from what I can sense. I would suggest keeping an eye on them both.”

Herrah glanced back. “…That’s actually not surprising. She’s always been resistant to sleep. Or _any_ sort of rest, it seems like." 

"An active mind wanders on its own accord when left idle. And it may be reluctant to go anywhere pleasant.”

“Now _there’s_ a common feeling, hm?” She tried for levity. Came up a bit distant.

Grimm turned his head slightly to place a kiss to the heel of her palm. Her attention was brought back only briefly, as she spotted one particularly nasty bruise at the inside of a wing, right under where it connected to his forearm. That one appeared to have broken skin. She pulled her hand back down and reached for it, but he quickly tucked the arm away before she could appraise it.

“Ah– I would not touch that.”

Herrah paused, and made a sympathetic noise under her fangs.

“I can be gentle. May I?”

Now, he should have probably found that hilarious. He was the Nightmare’s vessel; yet only a prince of that realm, but still a god in his own right. And she was something that could be irreparably damaged or ended by something as inconsequential as an unlucky fall, or a knife stuck into the wrong place. Gentleness was not the issue here, it was the literal burning flame that held his shell together. 

But she thought it looked painful, and wanted to do something about it.

He displayed the arm again, hesitant, and otherwise kept still. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” A kind smile was evident in her voice. He wanted to see it, but erred on the side of motionlessness.

She did heed his warning, only touching the faux cloak material around the wound. She pushed his arm up, and the swooping flare of more wing revealed yet more stark spots of abused flesh. 

“Oof. Poor thing. I’ve a poultice we can apply to these, if you wouldn’t mind me stopping by the tent with it later.”

“Of course,” he found himself saying, ability to self-heal quickly forgotten. 

“I’ll probably have to bring Hornet. She overheard your messenger, and would appreciate seeing you and your clan still alive and well. And Monomon, later.”

“…Ah. My apologies.”

“None necessary, it wasn’t a needless worry on either of our parts. And I already assured her you’d be fine, and that I’d make it so.”

For him, for the portent of doom and dread, she had wanted to make it so.

“And how are your cohorts faring? Brumm looked as though he’d been batted around like a baldur runt. …Grimm?”

“Hm? Oh, Brumm is well. Already took advantage of all that jarred soul lying around. Said it sat dusty in him, actually.”

“ _What_ were you staring at?” She asked over a laugh. Hands still on his wing with rare tenderness, one cool and light on his wrist. Worried about him. Smiling because of him.

“Oh, nothing. Anyway, Divine came willingly, and she seems more or less pleased with how she got to spend her evening out and about,” he went on, feeling light.

“… She just… tagged along.”

“Why, of course. _You_ try dragging her anywhere she doesn’t want to be. She’ll park her whole tent and stay behind until she’s good and ready, entire rituals be damned,” he admonished affectionately. Herrah shook her head, moving on in that way she did when she was comfortable with not needing to understand him or his troupe to accept the reality of them. She unfortunately released him as Monomon and Lurien approached, led by a Devout. 

“Your majesty. Are we to escort your…” the Devout glanced at the other two Dreamers, “compatriots to their homes?”

“There is _really_ no need,” Lurien tried for polite, but ended up closer to pleading. Monomon seemed less rattled by the idea.

“I would not mind an escort. Though, the Fog Canyon can be a bit… treacherous, for unfamiliar soldiers.”

“So I’ve seen,” Herrah faced the Devout, all business. “Up for the challenge, colonel?”

“Always,” the Devout straightened her stance.

“Good. Split the company and make sure both civilians arrive home safe. You’re all excused for the night after that.”

“Yessir.”

“I– Really, Beast, I am more than capable of–”

“Watcher. I _said_ , you’re both getting home safe. Royal decree.” That shut him up for a second. 

“Aww,” Monomon cooed. Grimm found that he agreed.

“Isn’t it so sweet, how she cares?” He added, openly adoring. The Devout colonel stood awkwardly unsure of where to look. The Beast and Watcher both looked anywhere but at each other, much to the Teacher’s entertainment.

“What? You were all nearly _murdered_ tonight _._ ” Herrah said it like an excuse. Lurien coughed.

“Th– Quite.”

“It is still _sweet_. I suppose even the Queen of the deep and the spiders is capable of _fretting_ ,” Monomon was the picture of mild amiability.

“Oy. Off you fuck, then,” Herrah waved them off, receiving a harried salute from the Devout. Lurien followed her quickly, but Monomon lingered another second.

“…It was nice to formally meet you, Troupemaster. You are as charming as Herrah says.” She gave her approximation of a bow, happily returned by Grimm with his own polite farewell, before drifting off after her escorts. 

Grimm stood straight again, and turned to Herrah with a smile that could cut glass. She was too busy glaring nails after the Teacher to notice.

“You told your friends I’m _charming_.” It was not a question.

“If she has a neck in there somewhere, I am going to _wring_ it.” The Queen declared.

“You find me _charming_.”

“Y– Of _course_ I do, you absolute _clown_.” She was getting huffy. A sensible person would elect not to provoke her further. 

“What is it that charms you, specifically? My stories? The magic? Ah, I know– I’ve caught you staring at my _face_ on enough occasions, I bet it’s my eyes,” he elected to provoke her further.

“Perhaps I ought to figure out that entrapment circle and stick you in a bog somewhere.”

“Would you?” He sidled closer, that smile still sitting pleasantly deranged on his face. She thought for a second, as if seriously considering it.

“…Probably not. I’d miss you a good deal,” her hand came up to tilt his chin down, and again he stilled, instinctively cautious with her.

“And you know, it’s nice to get to tell you that.” She moved her mask up a bit to nuzzle a kiss onto the side of his face. 

And all at once, unbidden, Grimm had an exceedingly clear visual of the deepest, stickiest nightmares housing themselves in her mind. They were those of a soldier. Those of one who in her lifetime came to intimately know war, know famine, and know pestilence that ravaged her entire world. One who now had to deal with the aftermath of surviving those things, when so many around her did not. Everything unsaid, and unearned, and the regrets that stayed.

Herrah cleared her throat, and he blinked, caught staring. She spoke casually.

“Too sappy, hm? Moving on, then– How about you gather the other two, and we make a proper funeral pyre of this place?”

He chased her hand with his own when she stepped back. She was the one caught by surprise, then, perhaps by how seriously he looked at her.

“Thank you for telling me,” he brought his voice down nearly to a whisper. 

“… It’s really nothing, Grimm–”

“No, it is not. That one’s absence might be lamented… It is a lovely thing for a person to know. I do hope you know it to be true for yourself, as well. For it is, from so many around you, all of whom are profoundly grateful that you still live. And from me.”

It was in Grimm’s nature to pick and pull at all the tangled things that rotted away in a bug’s mind, and bring them to the surface. He knew himself to be doing that now, even if as gently as he could manage. For it, he would not make her respond. 

Instead, he pushed the mask up just a fraction more to kiss her properly. She went willingly, and neither rushed to pull apart. 

When they did, though, he smiled again, crooked and creepy as ever. 

“Now, about _burning this place_ out of all creation.”

“… Ah. Yes. Think you’ll need a hand with that?” She spoke after a brief moment.

“Thank you, but I do believe my Troupe and I have it covered from here. I trust you both to be up to the task?”

He addressed a large pile of machinery and rubble a few feet away, where Divine and Brumm promptly popped out from hiding behind. 

“Yes! Folly and fire will dance together so prettily, I think.” Divine chirred.

“Mrmm. I can gather the kin. We’ve a surplus of oil for the lanterns that needs spending,” Brumm ruminated.

“Marvelous!” Grimm approved. 

“ _Gods below,_ ” Herrah shoved her mask back down, and further hid behind a hand in mild mortification.

* * *

Later, and somewhere with a far colder color pallet to its lighting and theme, a different deity was surprised with the news of explosions heard from all around the abandoned Soul Sanctum. No one was harmed, and nothing other than the Sanctum damaged, but he received reports of the fire being so hot that the rainfall would evaporate in a visible radius all around it. 

He deduced the perpetrator of this phenomenon quickly enough, and ended up internally declaring it a problem for _tomorrow’s_ Pale King. 

Tonight’s Troupemaster Grimm, meanwhile, was warm in his tent, indulging in the whimsical activity of receiving medical care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for posterity i wrote this right before quitting my job


	15. Cymbalism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Happy birthday," as a threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an older request i got for some baby hornet and lurien interaction, v early on in the timeline. i still liked it so ive proofread it again and added it here  
> just a lil smattering of watcher and lurien headcanons. gotta give this umbrella lookin mfer some love today

None, except perhaps Monomon, would be able to say exactly at what point the dynamic between the would-be Dreamers shifted to what it was. It wasn’t deliberate, as far as Lurien could tell. But the nixing of their shared fates had not been the end of their correspondences. 

The Beast and the Teacher still sought each other’s company when possible, and if the Watcher was nearby, they’d find him, too, and drag him into the conversation. Even though whenever the three of them were together, their talks would nearly always devolve into just animated _bickering_. So much so that it almost seemed to be the _point_ of them all getting together. 

If asked– and few, really, would ever ask, so it wasn’t incredibly relevant anyway– Lurien would greatly hesitate to call them all _friends_. 

The other two, though, would not. 

And that was probably why they’d let themselves in to (read: barged into) his tower, a large box held between them, then ushered him out of _his own bedroom_ to install whatever was in that box in there as, quote, “Your hatchday present.”

He had stared, silently praying for patience, and asked them how in Wyrm’s name they knew when his _hatchday_ was. Everything about whoever donned the Watcher’s garb, save for their given name, was very much meant to be _anonymous_. 

“‘Wyrm’s name’ is right. All I needed to do was ask him. Now move before I toss you,” Had been Herrah’s casual response. 

And so here he sat on the floor outside of his bedroom, back against the wall in a bid to be close enough to hear whatever havoc the two were wreaking in there. Monomon had better not be _poking around_ in his things. Even academic curiosity ought to have its limits.

He was unfortunately a little distracted from trying to get a good listen, by virtue of the tiny little creature the women had deployed to be his warden. This was not an exaggeration. Herrah’s daughter had been tasked to “make sure he doesn’t peek,” and it was a duty she took very seriously. He didn’t even see her until the door had slammed behind him, and he nearly tripped over a little flash of red. He might have yelped. 

(Didn’t he once hear somewhere that the smallest spiders were the most venomous?)

She stood in front of the door by him, still so much shorter even when he sat. How old even was she? She seemed well spoken enough for something so tiny. So, what, maybe five? Eight? At the very least, not a toddler. …Did the toddler margin stop at three, or four?

Saints below, Lurien did not know a damn thing about children. 

Especially not _this_ one. Brood of the highest beast authority, and of the authority to which _all of life as he knew it_ answered to in prayer. The child was holy. Who knows what latent power lies in such a small shell, one hewn together in part by a being with an unlimited store of it. Lurien quickly resolved to try not to upset her. 

Between the shuffling and muffled chatter through the wall behind him, and the impossible child standing guard, it was becoming a bit of a challenge to keep his tranquility. 

A flutter of movement at the door, and he startled. Little Hornet had sat down, smoothing out her cloak. His reaction made her stare.

“I don’t want to stand anymore,” She explained, sounding like she thought him a bit thick.

“… Of course.”

She looked around the hall with an idle curiosity. Lurien sat back and tried again to listen for any papers rustling or drawers opening.

“This tower smells nice,” the child remarked, again surprising him into attention.

“… That would be the candles. Thank you.”

She stared at him again. 

“I was complimenting the _tower_.”

He blinked, and sort of just… kept his mouth shut. 

Did she dislike him? How does one tell, with kids? He hadn’t done anything. It… It was probably a poor omen if the daughter of one’s highest patron deity did not _like_ them, wasn’t it?

Technically, if anyone in the city could answer that question, or any others of similar spiritual root, it’d be Lurien. Alas, he found himself coming up short. 

He took a breath, and thought back on what he knew in a bid to quell all but the most reasonable of his worries. Herrah had told the other Dreamers plenty of stories about her spiderling. She was apparently a little _hellion_ , yes, but that was also supposedly the worst of it. Wyrmsblood was only half of her. The other half was something no different than what he’d been, at her age. (Minus the… Spiderishness.) 

And it was an unfortunate truth that Lurien the Watcher knew exactly of what could become of an innocent child when they were treated as an abnormality. None so young deserved that. Knowing this, he could find no acceptable reason to treat her any differently from any other child. 

“… Are you… reading anything interesting in school?”

All that aside, Lurien abruptly remembered for the second time in as many minutes that he had absolutely no idea how to talk to _any_ sort of child. 

“No,” was her bemused response.

“Ah. That’s. That is a shame. …Are you faring well in your studies, otherwise?”

Little Hornet looked at him for a beat, then turned around a bit to shout at the door.

“Are you guys almost _done_ in there yet?!”

…Alright, that one actually kind of stung.

“Just a minute, sweetie!" 

"Hornet, _be nice,”_ came Monomon and Herrah’s voices respectively. 

“I _am!”_ She called back. 

“N– Hm.”

Watcher Lurien, the Unblinking Eye of the City, Count of Light-Touched, and Post-infection Renaissance painter of fair renown, _barely_ stopped himself from arguing back that no, actually, the small child was in fact being rather mean to him. 

Said child shot him a glare, and he got the distinct sense that he’d just narrowly avoided war. Lurien did not remember the hatchdays of his youth as being _this_ troublesome. 

The child stood up and began milling around, looking for anything of interest. It seemed she’d finally decided her task of Watcher-watching was no longer worth her time. She stayed in sight and didn’t run about, thank Wyrm. Lurien did not want to have to contend with yet another loose danger to his estate, on top the two most significant mortal names in Hallownest currently messing about in his chambers. 

Behind him, he heard a muffled Weaver-tongue swear, something clatter, and a giggle from the Teacher. Before his imagination could send him down any sort of spiral, he noticed the child turn a corner. Truly, there was nothing better to distract one from a crisis than a second, more _immediate_ crisis.

 _He_ was not technically supposed to be the one babysitting _her,_ but he scrambled to his feet to catch up and keep her in sight anyway. He found her staring at one of the statues lining the hall. She looked back at him, and the expression on her face was one of crushing judgment. 

Void and ancient bones below– _the girl had her father’s eyes._

He would have found this to be profoundly beautiful, had he discovered it _literally any other way_. 

“That is not me,” he found himself managing.

She looked between Lurien and the statue, doing absolutely nothing to hide her doubt.

“…Yes it is.”

“ _No_ , it is _not_. Look at the plaque below it. This one is my predecessor. …Er, that is, the Watcher before me.”

She did look, but the doubt stayed. Moreso when she peered down the hall, and noticed the rest. 

“Are they all supposed to be different people?”

“Yes.”

“… Which one is you?”

“I do not have one, yet, but one will be commissioned– ah, _made_ upon my-- death,” he stuttered the last word, too, realizing he had no idea whether she was yet old enough to have been taught about _death_. He was neither prepared nor willing to be the one to have to explain it to Herrah’s child. She might _actually_ murder him.

“Er– they’ll put one up when the next Watcher is chosen.”

She gave him a wholly unimpressed look. The unabashed way she showed her displeasure honestly befitted Wyrm and Beast both.

“So, when you die.”

“…Yes.”

“I _know_ what death is.”

“…I– Ah. Good." 

’ _Good’?!?_

"A lot of the hunters and Weavers died. So did a lot of mother’s friends,” the child explained with an impassive clip.

Oh. Right. It does make sense that the plague of the Old Light would not have allowed many the luxury of protecting their children from learning certain things all too early, doesn’t it? He still had no idea of her age, but a sinking feeling in him posited that she was younger than he might now guess. 

“Why do you need statues if everyone dresses the same? That’s dumb,” she went on. Lurien’s brief burst of pity was only somewhat doused. 

“They are symbolic. Nothing about our tradition has ever been about us. It is about Hallownest. Each Watcher confirms another generation of… your father’s reign. Each of us is another set of eyes for the decades. A practice that holds steady even in the face of centuries’ progress. We Watch over our kingdom, and over its continued prosperity." 

The statue the child had chosen to stand in front of had been his direct predecessor. She’d left a long shadow in her absence, but so had every single one of them, all handpicked by the King himself, as he’d been. Such a long line of shadows darkening the elevator shaft. The passing of the role was, Lurien believed, the closest thing a natural-born bug could get to immortality. 

"In a way, it’d be bad form to differentiate the statues. The Watcher in and of themself is a symbol; we all embody the same duties in spirit. We are all the same set of eyes.” Though he’d been briefly emboldened not to simplify his words with this, neither way of speaking seemed to get a different reaction from her. Maybe she just wasn’t paying attention either way.

“… Oh! So, like Grimm.”

He did a double take. “What." 

The _Nightmare King?_ What sorts of bedtime stories does Deepnest think appropriate to tell its hatchlings? 

"No– no it is– it’s metaphorical. Er, not litera– not actually true.”

“… So you’re lying?”

“No! It’s. It is… symbolic.”

“You like that word a lot, huh.”

Lurien wondered if his spiritual ancestors strewn about the hall were having a lark watching their newest representative get consistently outpaced by a _baby_.

Little Hornet now moved her attention elsewhere, back towards one of the large windows outside. She came as close to it as she could, but there was not much to see of the city in the rain’s haze, as usual. Still, she seemed to have her eye on something. Against his better judgement, he approached her side.

“… Does something below interest you?”

She pointed to the vague shadow of the next nearest tower. The best he could see of it was the solid glow of lumaflies or candles denoting the placement of its windows. 

“I bet I could jump that far,” she answered. 

_Alright_. 

“ _Please don’t try._ ”

By all the blessings of the hallowed ground he presided over, they heard hinges creak. 

“Alright, you may come back,” came Herrah’s voice. Hornet was only slightly faster than Lurien in her rush to the door, and he grabbed hold of its frame and braced himself for the worst.

His chambers were perfectly untouched, except for the new addition of an easel, freshly set up. It was a nice one, too. He stood staring.

He supposed he’d been needing a new one– his current easel tended to jam when he adjusted its height, and it had a tendency to collapse if handled without rather intense care, and _perhaps_ he’d complained about it once or twice out loud, but he hadn’t even expected them to be _listening_ –

“…What did you do with _mine?”_

“ _This one_ is yours now, Lurien,” the Teacher deflected cheerfully.

“Broke it,” Herrah then supplied, just as cheerfully.

He sort of just. Kept staring at the gift. That reaction, at least, ought not be too much of a surprise to anyone. One might even argue that staring was what he was most qualified to do, if they weren’t overly concerned with being respectful. Like the other Dreamers. Utterly disrespectful people, who’d gotten him something nice, and useful, that they thought he would _like,_ for a ritual that stopped mattering to him a very long time ago, back when he first sought out any better calling than just _being Lurien_ could ever be.

And these two were _so_ uncaring of his title that _just Lurien_ had to be who the easel was for, without a doubt.

...How about that.

Right. Manners. He’d just _received a gift._

“… Thank you. This really– _really_ had not been necessary–”

“You may stop at 'thank you,’ Watcher.”

Little Hornet quickly found her mother’s side again, and examined the room’s new addition.

“What is it?”

“It’s for painting. Lurien is an artist,” Monomon answered, to the girl’s open shock. She whirled around to look at him, accusatory.

“ _That’s_ what you do? Why didn’t you just _say_ that?! He told me he was a 'cymbal,’ he kept _saying_ that!" 

The other Dreamers briefly joined in on the staring. Lurien quickly accepted that between his word and little Hornet’s, it would not even be a contest as to which one everyone would believe. To his consolation, the child was an impressively confident speaker.

”… He painted all the pictures you see in this tower. Some of his work is in your father’s palace, too. Don’t you think they look nice?“ The Teacher, apparently dead set on being as nice to a person as possible on their birthday, urged the child. Lurien was sort of still rooted to the spot for a good number of reasons and feelings, all of which were really more than enough for, say, the next year or so.

”… Okay,“ the girl finally answered. That was definitely the best he was going to get. Herrah was making an active effort _not_ to laugh at him, in yet another small act of charity. 

Lurien took a breath, and collected an elegant, well spoken, and child-appropriate way to beg these people to get the hell out of his spire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shitty falling easel almost broke my foot once so im making it canon in this universe that that happened to lurien too


End file.
